


The Art of Life and Death

by freckleslikeconstellations



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Art, Beauty - Freeform, Cancer, Chemotherapy, Death, Drama, F/M, Fluff, Hair Loss, Multi, Pretty Woman References, Sexual References, Strong Language, Vera Lynn song reference, artistReader!, life - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-06
Updated: 2016-05-16
Packaged: 2018-06-06 17:22:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 57,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6763153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckleslikeconstellations/pseuds/freckleslikeconstellations
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Mycroft is diagnosed with cancer everyone's lives are altered and you find yourself on a very different path from the one you'd expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Life

**A Sunday Morning in February:**

 

You glide the pencil across the paper of the sketchbook, moving it down in a soft curve. The lead leaves the lightest trace of marks upon the paper. It doesn’t matter though. It’s still a new drawing, you’re still finding your way with it. You look at your initial markings and then back to the subject. You have to admit that you find it more interesting to look at the real thing then the shape you've done resembling Mycroft’s back-or the part of it that you can see anyway. You drink it in, taking in the largely smooth expanse of freckled skin that’s on show above where the plush white duvet is curled around him. He’s got his head turned towards you and one hand tucked just underneath it, whilst his other is hidden in his side. As your eyes roam down across his hair, taking in the rich auburn colour, there’s a slight movement beneath his eyelids. You wonder what he’s dreaming about. You don’t feel concerned though; judging by the small smile that he’s got on his face it’s something nice. You smile yourself. Then you go back to your drawing. 

 

Mycroft’s in a park. It must have not long since rained because as he shifts his feet across the thin grass that covers the ground it feels a little damp and spongy. He looks down at it. Droplets of moisture glisten off each blade. Mycroft’s a little puzzled by what he’s doing bare-footed in a park, but he doesn’t feel particularly worried about it all the same. If he’s here then he must have a good reason to be. He’s not one to just go walking about absent-mindedly through parks after all. He lifts his face to admire the sun in the blue sky. It’s already drying the ground out, and it feels warm upon his skin. He can hear the soft thrum of traffic nearby. He feels sure that he’s still in London. He looks around. There’s not another person in sight. Nor is there any sign of what he’s done with his shoes and socks. He pads forwards, lifting the smart black trousers he’s wearing up a little with his hands so that their bottoms won’t drag against the ground. He can see some trees off in the distance towards the far end of the park, which he’s walking horizontally across. He goes towards them, getting the feeling that, that’s where he needs to be. He’s only made his way a little further forwards though when he stops again, giving his hands a little rest from tugging up his trousers, whilst he admires his surroundings. It really is a beautiful day. He thinks of you. Perhaps if you’re not too busy you can come and join him. He smiles and nods to himself at the thought. He slips his hand into his trouser pocket and pulls out his phone. He dials your number quickly and shifts his position slightly as it rings. The grass tickles against the side of his feet, brushing against his ankles. He lets out a little chuckle without being able to help it. But he frowns a moment later when he gets transferred to the answer phone machine. He tries calling you one more time. Still you don’t answer. He sighs and slips the phone back into his pocket, contemplating what he should do. Suddenly things don’t seem as beautiful. The heat from the sun feels cooler and the moisture that transfers from the grass to his skin feels slick and uncomfortable. The park looks less like his own personal paradise and becomes something that’s barren, which makes him feel isolated and alone. A sudden breeze rumples through his hair and clothes, causing him to move forwards. He does so until he comes across a brook that bars his way from going any further and from reaching the trees that he’s been initially heading towards. He crouches down by the edge of it, beside the flat and slightly jagged stones. The sound of the water is pleasant and the water itself is cool and fresh. It looks good enough to drink. Mycroft scoops some of the water up with his hands and sips at it; a shiver of delight runs through him at how cold it is. He plunges his hands into the water again and makes to lift up some more. It’s so refreshing. It makes him feel better. 

 

You stop drawing and watch in fascination as something begins to flicker beneath Mycroft’s eyelids more rapidly. He gives a couple of jerky, twitchy movements and his breath seems to catch in his throat, before his eyes slowly open. 

 

“Drawing me again?” he murmurs as soon as he catches sight of the way that you’re sitting up in your pyjamas in bed, your legs slightly tilted towards him and your back against your pillow as your sketchbook rests upon your knees. 

 

“Well, you are my favourite subject,” you tease, grinning. 

 

“Is that right?” he checks, propping himself up on his elbow and looking very pleased with himself. 

 

“Mmmhmm,” you say with a smile, before you look away bashfully as his gaze grows more intense. 

 

“What makes me your favourite?” Mycroft asks, brushing his hand teasingly against the bottom of your leg as he adjusts his position. 

 

You start, before you smile and look back at him. As soon as you do he uses his arms to lift himself. Your legs stretch out automatically, before he slides onto you. 

 

You grin and bop him on the head with your sketchbook. He takes both it and your pencil deliberately out of your hands. You let out a breath of protest when he drops them off the edge of the bed. They clatter onto the floor. 

 

“Myc I”- you begin, before you break off abruptly when he silences you with a kiss. _“Mmm,”_ you breathe into his mouth, whilst your hands automatically go to rake through his hair. 

 

He smiles, kissing you all the more insistently. As you wriggle down he makes to adjust his position so that he can be on top of you more securely, but-

 

 _“Ah,”_ he gasps out, pulling away from you automatically when he feels a sharp pain in his hip. 

 

 _“Myc?”_ you ask, your heart skipping a beat in anxiety as you watch as he both turns his head towards and places a hand delicately upon the source of the pain, which is radiating from his right hip. 

 

“It’s fine,” he says, shifting his fingers against his skin momentarily, before he looks back at you. “Just a bit of stiffness.”

 

“You sure?” 

 

He answers you with a kiss. 

 

*

 

“Myc where”- you begin, padding around the flat that you share two days later, before you break off and come to a stop when you walk into the bedroom and see him sitting on the end of the bed. He’s taken off the white shirt he’s been wearing that day and it lays in a pool on the duvet to his left. There’s an open box of cream to his right and by the looks of it he was just about to take the cap off the tube. “Still stiff?” you frown, leaning against the door. 

 

“Mmmhmm,” he says, unscrewing the cap, “It was a little tender at work today, so I thought this might be of help.”

 

You go across and step in between his legs, before you feel carefully down his right side with your hand. He wriggles a little in discomfort when your hand reaches the area that’s delicate. “There?” you check. He nods. You shift your fingers against it and he winces. You frown concernedly. 

 

“You can’t see anything different. There’s no swelling,” he tells you. 

 

“Still, maybe you should go and get it checked out,” you say, lifting your hand away and frowning at the area instead. 

 

He makes an impatient sound, “F/N, my dear, I'm the British government, I don’t have time to”-

 

“British government or not, if you’re sick”- you begin to protest loudly. 

 

He takes your hands in his to calm you, “I probably just slept on it a little awkwardly. I'm sure that it’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

 

You nod though you still don’t look convinced. You can’t help but be worried too. You’re twenty-seven to Mycroft’s thirty-two, and he’s usually the one looking after you, especially when you’re sick. You've never really had cause to look after him much before, even though you've been together just over four years. Sure there was that one time when Mycroft had the flu, but he basically powered through that himself, chucking a load of pills down his throat and carrying on much the same as normal aside from the fact that he’d had to keep a box of tissues close at hand. Aside from that he’s just had little colds every now and again. Never a pain in his side-

 

“F/N,” Mycroft says, interrupting your thoughts, “You’re worrying over nothing again.”

 

You start a little. “Sorry,” you pause, “I guess I just don’t like not being able to help you, even if it’s with a little pain.”

 

“Who says that you can’t help me?” Mycroft asks, smiling at you knowingly and passing you the cream. 

 

Your face brightens and you feel pleased that you _can_ actually do something after all, before you carefully squeeze out a blob of cream onto your finger. It’s colder than you’d expected and you shiver a little. Mycroft smiles, but he soon winces when you carefully apply it to his right hip and begin to rub it in. 

 

“Colder than you’d expected, huh?” you tease. He frowns at you. 

 

You finish doing the cream and go to wash your hands. Mycroft re-applies the cap to the tube and puts it back in its box. 

 

“How come you were looking for me anyway?” he asks, slipping his shirt back on and making to do up the buttons as you re-enter the room. 

 

“Oh, I just wanted to get your opinion on something,” you say, having almost forgotten about the original reason yourself. 

 

“What?” he questions. 

 

You take his hand with yours and slowly tug him off the bed, before you lead him out and across into the spare room, which you use as your art studio. 

 

You don’t always allow Mycroft in, so it’s a rare privilege for him to enter with your permission. He looks around at the various canvases that are both up on and leaning against the wall eagerly, whilst the smell of dry paint hits his nostrils and makes him wrinkle his nose. All of your paintings-of landscapes and people mainly-are always so beautiful and refreshing to look at. He always loves getting the chance to see them. He crouches down and looks at a beautiful one you've done of a gazebo in a park with the light hitting it on one side. 

 

“When did you do this?” he asks. 

 

“Oh don’t look at that one,” you tell him, as you stretch up to lift a paint-splattered sheet off the painting that’s on the centre easel, “It’s awful”-

 

“It’s really not,” he tells you with a bit of a frown upon his face. 

 

You huff out a breath. He always does this. _Always_ tries to be kind and tell you that he likes the ones you don’t. You never believe him. “It _is_ awful,” you insist, “It’s all large and empty and wrong. I was trying to do it from an angle that’s slightly further away, but it just came out as this huge mess and there should be people inside it and… _eurgh_ it’s all wrong.”

 

“Well I like it,” Mycroft insists, “And if you dare try and burn it or get rid of it then I won’t be happy with you,” he goes on more fervently.

 

“Noted,” you swallow. “Anyway, this is the one I wanted you to look at,” you say, pulling the sheet off the canvas and tossing it aside. 

 

You step back and Mycroft comes to join you. 

 

He tilts his head on one side and looks at it intently. The side of a woman’s face takes up half the canvas. St. Bartholomew’s hospital is recognizable but slightly blurred behind her. The light’s just catching against her face. 

 

“It’s supposed to be of Molly. Greg wanted me to do it as part of his birthday present for her. There’s just something not quite right about it though, something I can’t place. I think it might be something to do with the proportions of her face, but…” you trail off. 

 

Mycroft stares at it a moment longer and compares it to the photo you've been working off, which is pinned to the top-right corner of the canvas. He scrunches his face up a little as he looks between them. “I think it’s the distance between the one eye that we can see and her nose. If you were to move that one eye slightly across to the left then”-

 

“Oh my God you’re right! Thank you!” you interrupt excitedly. He makes a bit of a ‘mph,’ noise when you turn and first kiss him on the cheek, before you fling your arms around him. “Oops sorry,” you say, remembering about his hip. 

 

“It’s fine,” he says, before his hands go to your waist as he kisses you. 

 

* 

 

Mycroft can’t sleep that night. His hip feels uncomfortable, the pain too big to ignore. He has to keep shifting about, and he tries to do so carefully so that he won’t wake you. He moves again, rolling onto his back, and turns his head so that he can look at you. You’re on your back too, but you've got your head turned towards him. Your eyelids are peaceful and unmoving and you've got a small smile toying about your face. One of your arms is slightly bent towards your stomach, whilst the other is making a stop sign close to your head. The sight of you looking so peaceful soothes him for a moment but then his pain becomes more insistent again. It’s sharper this time, rather than the dull, constant ache that it is usually, and it nearly makes a breath escape him. He shifts onto his side, his body curving towards yours. He swallows and tries to focus hard on you. He tries to observe you so intently that he’ll forget about his pain. It works to a point but he’s still tossing and turning by the time he finally slips into an uneasy sleep. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s usually awake and up, before the alarm that he sets as back-up goes off, but that following morning’s different. That following morning he feels like he’s only just shut his eyes, before his alarm is waking him up, sending Radio 4 throughout the room. Though Radio 4 is hardly loud its sudden unwelcome intrusion makes Mycroft let out a small noise of protest and wriggle further down, pulling the duvet further up him. 

 

This technique of blatantly rejecting the fact that it’s time for him to get up yet works well enough until you roll around and question a little sleepily, “Myc? Isn't that the alarm?” Mycroft grunts, but although his heart’s thumping a little in anticipation of having to get up he doesn’t make to move. You blink a little and frown at your boyfriend’s back. You shuffle forwards and swing up a little, placing a hand on his arm. “Is it your hip?” you ask. 

 

He shakes his head automatically, before he swings upward into a sitting position. You let go of his arm as he does so and sit up too. 

 

“I'm going shopping later. Do you want me to get you anything for it?” you ask, looking at him concernedly and feeling more alert than you usually would at this hour due to his unusual behaviour. 

 

Again, he shakes his head, “No, I'm fine,” he says, looking at the clock and shifting to stand up. 

 

You frown at him, “Promise me that you’ll go and see a doctor if it continues.”

 

He makes a non-committal sound in his throat, before he strides over to the wardrobe and begins to select his clothes for the day. 

 

 _“Myc?”_ you say when his response isn't good enough. 

 

He huffs out a breath and glances over his shoulder at you, whilst he holds a hanger that has a white shirt upon it. “Fine,” he says once he sees how you’re frowning and raising your eyebrows at him. 

 

Feeling more satisfied you nod, before you swing out of bed and make to get dressed yourself. 

 

*

 

“How was work today?” you ask Mycroft that night over dinner. 

 

He swallows his mouthful of fish. “Mm better,” he replies. You look at him sceptically. “It was still a little stiff, but it’s definitely improved,” he adds. You stare at him consideringly for another moment, checking to make sure that he’s telling the truth. A little smile pops onto your face, when, going by his even face, you decide that he is. 

 

Mycroft continues to allow you to think that he’s recuperating over the next couple of days, taking care to only put the cream on when you’re not in the vicinity and not to react whenever the sharpest pain kicks in. 

 

He tells you that it’s gone that Friday. He doesn’t tell you that it’s getting worse or that the cream doesn’t seem to be doing anything. 

 

He feels bad for not telling you the truth, of course he does, but he knows that you’d only worry and insist on him seeing a doctor. It’s better for the both of you this way. 

 

*

 

Two weeks later at the end of the month the pain’s still there. It’s getting to the point where Mycroft’s honestly considering seeing a doctor himself. A thought, which he once more contemplates when he’s lying awake again one night. On the one hand he’s against the idea because it would mean getting less done and having to work around it. In short it would be a great inconvenience. But if he can get something a little stronger that he can apply and be rid of this pain once and for all then he’s beginning to think it would be worth such an effort. After all, he’s definitely been feeling more frustrated because of it, and though he’s done a good job at hiding such irritation from you so far he knows that if things continue in this vein he won’t be able to hide it from you for much longer. He sighs a little and looks across. You’re once more sleeping peacefully and you've been perfectly happy and oblivious of late. He doesn’t want to spoil it. But he knows that, that’s exactly what he _will_ end up doing if he ends up accidentally snapping at you because of his pain. So, with that thought in mind, he decides to make an appointment with the doctor tomorrow after all and adds such a thing to his mental diary. 

 

*

 

On a cool, but sunny Wednesday in the second week of March you let yourself into the flat late that afternoon, your hands loaded with shopping bags, to find that Mycroft’s already home. You can hear him shuffling about in the bedroom and you presume that he’s only just arrived back himself and is getting changed. 

 

“Hey, you’re back early,” you call, dumping the two bags down onto the kitchen counter, before you pad across towards the bedroom. “I just popped out to do some shopping, I was thinking we could have some potatoes with”- you say, before you break off and stop dead by the door. There’s an open suitcase on the bed, and Mycroft, looking harried, is walking back and forth from the wardrobe and drawers to the bag, placing clothes inside it. You think at first that something’s come up with work and he’s got to go away. It’s only when you take in the scene more that you realize that the bag on the bed is yours and that it’s _your_ clothes that Mycroft’s packing. Your heart skips a beat. “Myc? Are those my clothes?” you ask even though you know that they are, “What are you?”-

 

“You can’t stay here any more,” Mycroft interrupts you curtly, going from the drawer to the bed and placing a t-shirt and a cardigan of yours inside the bag. 

 

 _“What?”-_ you say, not understanding. You sound breathless because at his words you feel like you've just been kicked in the stomach. Mycroft doesn’t stop or say anything. He just turns and strides back to the drawer, tugging it out a little further and pulling out another one of your t-shirts. “Myc”-

 

“You can’t stay here any more,” Mycroft repeats coldly, making you flinch as he turns suddenly back towards you. He drops your t-shirt on the floor and wears a haughty look as he finally turns his gaze on you. “Don’t you get it?” he asks as you cower underneath his stare, “I don’t want to be with you any more.”

 

You open your mouth, feeling hurt and confused, whilst cold ripples run out across your skin from your stomach. You don’t seem able to say anything. 

 

Mycroft shakes his head at you as if he pities how stupid you are. Then he bends carefully to pick up your t-shirt and comes across, dropping it in the bag that’s on the bed. 

 

Something about seeing the soft f/c material disappear inside the dark bag jerks you back into life and makes you say, “I don’t understand.”

 

He turns towards you, his eyes fiery and his expression calculating, “Maybe I should say it more clearly then,” he suggests, before he enunciates, “I don’t want to be with you any more. I want you to leave.”

 

You look at him. You take in those cold blue eyes and the way that his whole body seems tight with tension. Even in the haze of confusion that you’re in though and even with how much you’re currently hurting you know that something’s not quite right here. Know that this isn't just him having grown tired or bored of you. Four years have taught you a lot in the art of understanding Mycroft Holmes, and you know that there’s something deeper going on. You draw yourself up and fold your arms. “I don’t believe you,” you tell him. He makes an irritated sound in his throat and looks away from you. Spurred on you step forwards with your arms still folded and ask, “What’s going on?” 

 

“There’s nothing going on,” he snaps, his head swinging so he can look back at you. 

 

Instead of flinching though you wear a grim look of satisfaction. He’d said those words automatically, without being able to help it, and you’d heard the desperation that had lurked just beneath the frustration in his tone. 

 

He swallows and looks away from you. 

 

“Okay,” you say, unfolding your arms. He looks at you warily, his eyes flickering. “Say that is true. Say you _have_ suddenly decided that you don’t want to be with me. That you've had enough of me”- he shifts his position uncomfortably and you feel even more sure that you’re right-“We've been together four years. I think you owe me more of an explanation than that.”

 

He looks at you, his skin tight and pinched with desperation. “Why do you have to push?” he asks. “I don’t want to be with you any more, that’s all you need to”- he breaks off suddenly and strides past you, knocking against you in his hurry. 

 

You feel even more confused. “Myc?” you ask, whirling around. 

 

Your brow furrows as you see him heading towards the bathroom. He disappears inside it, trying to push the door closed with fumbling fingers behind him, but it doesn’t shut properly. You hear the sound of him retching and being sick just a moment later. It makes alarm go through you. _“Myc,”_ you murmur, hurrying forwards and carefully pushing the bathroom door further open, before you step inside. 

 

He’s on his knees, his head bent towards the toilet bowl, no longer retching or being sick thank goodness but just breathing hard. The part of his face that you can see is blotchy with colour. His hands had been circling around the base of the bowl, but when he hears you come in he swats one of them at you, telling you to go. He’s sick again just a moment later. 

 

 _“Myc,”_ you breathe, feeling sorry for him. You move instinctively forwards, rubbing at his back. 

 

He shrugs your hand off, not wanting you touching him, or perhaps he just can’t stand you being kind to him in that moment. He draws his head up and breathes heavily. “See?” he asks in a desperate tone, “I'm sick, but I'm not being sick because of my illness, I'm being sick because you’re making me. If you could only listen, if you could only leave, don’t you see that you’re killing me by refusing?”

 

 _“I”-_ you begin, not knowing quite what to say. All you know is that you feel hurt by his accusation that you’re responsible for this. 

 

“I’ve got cancer,” he blurts out. 

 

You let out a breath. Your body seems to instinctively slump back a little against the wall, whilst your hands scrape against the blue wallpaper that’s there. It feels too smooth and doesn’t seem to go with what you've just heard. _Cancer._ The word just seems to hang in the air between you for a moment. 

 

Mycroft swipes at his mouth and turns his head back to look at you, “Do you understand now?” he asks, “Why I can’t be with you?” You shake your head, feeling dazed. A million thoughts are currently making their way through your mind but none of them are complete or finished. All of them are incoherent and it’s like you can’t link any of them up or hear them properly. They’re all just talking over one another. He swivels, his knees brushing against the carpet so that he can look at you more, “I can’t put you through that, I won’t, I just won’t F/N. I won’t have you ruin your life because of me.”

 

You swallow. You don’t know what to say. All you know is that he’s wrong. You shouldn't split up because of this. He clumsily gets to his feet and flushes the toilet. You rip a piece of toilet tissue off. “I'm not leaving you,” you tell him, handing it to him. 

 

He looks at you, breathing heavily as he dabs his mouth with it. You suddenly find that you just need a moment to think. You swallow and turn. You head out into the living room, before you sit down on the settee. 

 

Mycroft stays in the bathroom a moment longer, pretending that he’s still wiping the sick off his mouth when in reality he’s just trying to summon up enough courage to face you and to begin explaining what he knows he needs to. Finally, when he’s as ready as he’ll ever be, he chucks the tissue paper into the toilet bowl and flushes it. He steps out of the bathroom. 

 

He stops and just takes you in for a moment. You’re sitting at the far end of the settee, right at the edge, your elbows on your knees and your head resting on your hands, which are fisted up close to your mouth. You’re staring off into the distance, but Mycroft knows that you’re not really seeing any of it. He knows that your mind’s already too full of everything that you've ever heard about cancer, that you’re already panicking and worrying more about it than he wants you to be. He swallows and goes across, sitting beside you, but still giving you a little space. 

 

Your eyes flick to him, before they move away again. He can see a tightening of something around your mouth as they do so and he knows that you’re bracing yourself for whatever he’s about to say. 

 

“I went to see the doctor about the pain in my hip”-

 

“You said it was gone!” you interrupt him accusingly, turning towards him, whilst you run your hands back through your hair. You huff out a breath and close your mouth when you see the truth that shines in his eyes without him having to say a word. He hadn’t wanted to worry you. 

 

“It was recommended that I go for an x-ray”- you let out a bit of a whimper without being able to help it, before your hands fidget around your mouth as if you’re trying to keep any more sound in. Mycroft shifts across and offers you his hand. You take it. He squeezes it, before he rubs at it a little, “So I did, and after the result I was referred to a specialist bone sarcoma centre.” He swallows. He rubs at your hand again, before he goes on, “That surprised me I must admit. I’d quite hoped that it was a normal sort of pain that just needed something a little stronger than what we had available to deal with it.” He swallows and you can tell that he’d probably realized deep down that it was something more, but that he just hadn’t wanted to face up to it. “In any case I tried to push it to the back of my mind. I quite figured that they were over-reacting and being cautious.” _No,_ you think, _you hoped, that they were being cautious. You hoped that you weren’t going to get bad news or any interruption to your life._ As if he’s read your mind he swallows. “Last week I went to the centre and they carried out some tests. Today they called me at work”- you swallow and shift a little, you already know where this story is going to end, but that doesn’t stop you from wishing that Mycroft was about to say something else- “They wanted me to go down there straight away. I had a meeting in twenty-minutes so I wasn't best pleased, but they were quite insistent.” _Even if you hadn’t had a meeting,_ you think, _you wouldn't have wanted to go there._ “I think I knew then,” Mycroft confesses, finally admitting what he’s been leading up to all along. “Anyway,” he goes on with a shake of his head, and you can imagine that his mind had already started forming a plan about how to deal with his diagnosis, and in particular, how to deal with _you,_ before he’d even been officially diagnosed. “I went and they told me that what I’ve got is known as chondrosarcoma”-

 

“What does that mean?” you ask, releasing your free hand from your mouth and shifting your position. 

 

“It’s a type of bone sarcoma that develops in the cartilage cells. In my case it’s in the pelvis,” Mycroft begins slowly, giving you a chance to process it all. You still look uncertain about what exactly that means though so he shifts closer towards you and takes your hand more securely between his. “Once they’d identified what type of cancer it was they could tell me whether it was low-grade or high-grade and what stage it’s considered to be at. Low-grade’s slightly better because”-

 

“What type of grade are you?” you interrupt, bracing yourself because you feel sure that you already know the answer. 

 

“High-grade,” Mycroft swallows. “That means the cancer cells are growing more quickly inside my body and that they’re more aggressive”- he hesitates-“They’re also more likely to spread.”

 

You let out a long breath, the news still coming as a blow to you even though you’d been expecting it. “The stage?” you ask, hoping for some better news, or at the very least something that you can look on more positively. 

 

“Stage 2b,” Mycroft says.

 

“2b?” you let out a little breath, _“That’s_ …ironic”-

 

“I know,” Mycroft murmurs, before he goes on more heavily, “It means its grown outside the bone wall.”

 

You let out a long breath. Unable to sit down any longer you get up and begin to move about, walking back and forth in the small space to the side of the settee, coffee table and TV, whilst you raise your hand consideringly to your lips. Mycroft watches you uneasily. “Right,” you say a moment later, “No, that’s-that’s all right,” you add a little breathlessly as you turn back to him. He leans away and raises his eyebrows at you. You step forwards, staring at him. “They have all kinds of treatments these days, and they’re doing research on it all the time aren't they? You see it on TV and read about it and stuff, you”-

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft interrupts you firmly when your head begins to swing about anxiously and he can tell that you’re only getting increasingly overwhelmed and panicked about his diagnosis. 

 

“N-No Myc, don’t do this, you’re not going to die, I'm not leaving you,” you say, looking back at him with tears glistening in your eyes. 

 

He gestures for you to go to him. You do so, carefully sitting upon his lap. “I don’t know if I'm going to die,” he begins steadily, whilst one hand clutches at your knee and the other supports your back, “But I have to take pre-cautions.” You let out a whimper without being able to help it and he shifts underneath you. The hand that’s on your knee moves to grasp at your hand instead, his palm tightening against yours, before he releases it and brushes your hair back from your face. You release a breath. His hand goes back to yours again. “Now,” he begins, “I realize that this isn't very romantic. But if you’re going to be stubborn and choose to stay with me, and just because you’re saying that now doesn’t mean you can’t change your mind later down the line”-

 

“I'm not going to leave you,” you interrupt him insistently. You sniff a little, whilst the tears that have escaped you dry on your face. 

 

“There’s a chance that I could get very sick F/N. They’re going to do surgery to try and get it out, but if that doesn’t work or I have to do chemotherapy then”-

 

“I'm not leaving you”-

 

“I could end up bald in bed, weak, grumpy, I wouldn't be much fun to be around. I don’t expect you to put up with that, not when you don’t have to. You've got your whole life in front of you. You don’t need this”-

 

“Neither do you,” you begin, your free hand trembling against his chest as your fingers play with his shirt buttons. 

 

He tightens his grip, “I just mean-I just want you to be aware that if there comes a time-if you change your mind or things become too much, I wouldn't blame you if you walked away, not in the slightest.”

 

You shake your head. “I'm not going to leave you. I love you.”

 

He bows his head and nods. As he closes his eyes he can’t help but think about how realistically he’d expected such a reaction from you. You've always been ridiculously loyal to those you love. It’s one of the things that have always endeared you to him. “Very well,” he says quietly, opening his eyes and looking up at you again. The small smile that’s on his face makes you cup at his cheek with your hand and stroke at it consideringly. “In that case,” he begins. You let go of him. “I want us to get married.” You look at him. Your face is calculating. It’s not the picture of bright happiness that he would have hoped for had he ever thought about bringing the matter up before now. There’s understanding there instead. Too much already. But perhaps that’s a good thing. “If I die”-

 

“Myc,” you protest, for already you can’t bear hearing him talk about his possible death in such a matter-of-fact way. 

 

“No F/N,” Mycroft sighs, “If I die then I don’t want there to be any disagreement. There’s a provision for you already in my will, but you hear about these things, about disagreements occurring. If we’re married then that should negate them completely and no one should be able to question a thing. I want to make sure that you’re looked after. That’s something I'm adamant about.”

 

“All right,” you nod thoughtfully, rubbing at a strand of his hair in between two of your fingers, “But it will have to be a small ceremony. We've got bigger things to think about”-

 

“I don’t want you to”-

 

“Miss out, I know. But this is something that _I'm_ adamant about. I don’t want to waste time or money on a big do when we could be using it to make you better.”

 

He looks at you. But he can tell from the tone you've just used and by your expression that you’re not going to budge on this point. “All right,” he relents. 

 

You nod. “We can always re-new our vows when you’re better,” you say in an attempt to be positive. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ he says warningly, for he doesn’t want you to make assumptions about what’s going to happen in the future. 

 

“You _will_ get better,” you tell him sternly. 

 

He lets out a breath and looks down, before he looks back up at you once more. When he can tell that there’s still to be no arguing with you however, he says, “All right.”

 

You nod, feeling relieved, before you kiss him on the forehead. “Have you told your family about it yet?” you ask as you lean back, though you’re already pretty sure that you know what the answer will be. 

 

“No, not yet,” Mycroft says, looking off to the side of you rather than at you. 

 

You look at him for a moment, threading your fingers through his hair. You know that you should be telling him that he’ll have to tell them at some point and that he can’t avoid not doing it forever, but you feel sure that he already knows all that so you don’t say anything. 

 

“I'm worried about telling Sherlock,” is what Mycroft finally confesses when he looks back at you. You open your mouth but he continues, “I know it will have a great impact on my parents, but Sherlock he…”

 

“You’re worried that he’ll start using again once he hears about your diagnosis?” 

 

Mycroft nods. 

 

You fidget with his hair, thinking hard about it all. You've only ever seen Sherlock high once, and though the sight wasn't exactly pretty you know that compared to what Mycroft’s seen his brother go through it was nothing. “What if we told everyone when they’re all together?” you suggest. Mycroft looks at you. “Your parents, Sherlock, John, Greg, Molly, Mrs. Hudson”-

 

“The landlady?” Mycroft interrupts you unhappily. 

 

“She’s my friend,” you prod at him, “And you know just as well as I do that she, along with Greg, Molly and John, could come very handy in helping us look out for Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft unfortunately _does_ know. “Okay,” he relents a moment later, looking back up at you. 

 

*

 

Mycroft goes to bed early that night. 

 

After the initial conversation that you’d had neither of you had discussed the diagnosis any further. You’d finally put the shopping away and had a mish-mash of a dinner. Then you’d just sat close to one another on the settee, whilst you watched some rubbish on TV. Mycroft had even taken note of what was going on for a change. You’d noticed that he’d seemed to be focusing hard on it in fact, as if he was afraid of stopping his commentary or observations for a single moment because that would mean getting lost inside his mind and thinking about his diagnosis again. When you’d cottoned on to what he was doing the realization had made your heart squeeze a little in fear and your body shift closer to him. He’d put his arm around your shoulder. You’d felt it stiffen against you when an advert about cancer had come on. You’d swallowed. You hadn’t known what to do. Mycroft had gone to bed with a clearing of his throat soon after, and now he’s had his fill you find that you can’t watch any more TV either. 

 

You’d told him that you’d be in, in a moment. But instead you get up and cast a wary glance towards the bedroom door, which he’s left slightly ajar, before you slip across and fetch your laptop, setting it up on the dining table. You turn the volume up on the TV, before you sit down by the table. You hope that by doing so Mycroft won’t hear the start-up sounds of your laptop. You swallow, your hands getting fidgety as you wait for it to load. Finally it does and you click onto the Internet hurriedly. As soon as the search engine comes into view however you suddenly realize that you don’t have any clue of how to spell, ‘chondrosarcoma.’ You make a strangled sort of choking noise and curse yourself, feeling inadequate already. In the end you just put in, ‘bone sarcoma,’ instead, thinking that you’ll hopefully be able to find chondrosarcoma from there. 

 

You do and you've just clicked through to read about what exactly chondrosarcoma is in more detail when you hear a sudden sound coming from the bedroom. You freeze, your eyes flicking towards the door anxiously. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ you hear Mycroft calling questioningly. 

 

You start a little, your fingers fidgeting against the keypad. “Coming,” you call back, your voice wavering a little despite the fact that you’d tried to keep it steady. 

 

You hope that, that will be enough to satisfy him, and when you don’t hear any further sounds your eyes flick cautiously back to the laptop screen, before, feeling more assured that you won’t be disturbed, you shift closer to it. 

 

Your response _hadn’t_ been enough to satisfy Mycroft however, and he pads silently out of the room a moment later, running a weary hand back through his hair, before his eyes come to fix on you. 

 

Your instant reaction is to slam the lid of the laptop down, but a flush creeps across your cheeks a moment later when you realize how obvious it is about what you’re looking up. 

 

“Let me see,” Mycroft says tiredly, coming across to you. 

 

You swallow, before you slowly lift the lid of the laptop back up. You find yourself holding your breath when he bends down to look at the screen. The word, ‘chondrosarcoma’ is in bold letters at the top of the page. It stands out more than any of the other words, and that’s the first time that you get the sense it probably always will now. 

 

“You won’t find a cure on the Internet,” Mycroft tells you, “In fact some of the things you read on there will probably only leave you feeling more scared.”

 

You look at him, wondering suddenly if he’s looked up everything he can about the disease that’s now a part of him. Wondering if he’s felt more scared because of anything he’s read on-line. You know it’s likely, but you just find it hard to imagine the British Government sitting behind his desk at work, feeling scared and alone. You shiver. You never want him to feel that way. “I'm just trying to educate myself,” you reveal to him a little tentatively, trying to get your mind off the images, which had just infiltrated your head. 

 

His lip quirks upward for about half-a-second. “You forget who you’re talking to,” he reminds you, his hand going to the back of your chair as he stands up straighter. You peer up at him. “I know how this works. You go on-line thinking that you’ll just look up one thing, and before you know it you've got three different tabs open and you’re a mile away from where you started.” You swallow and duck your head. “Come to bed F/N.” You look at him. “I'm not saying don’t look anything up,” he tells you, “I just want you to promise me that you’ll be cautious when you do because this is real now.” You swallow again and nod. He looks at you studiously for a moment, before satisfaction appears on his face. After a quick nod his gaze goes back to your laptop and he leans forwards, clicking off the Internet and then telling the computer to shut down. He carefully presses the lid down once it has. He hands the device to you and you put it away, back in its bag. 

 

When you turn around it’s to find that Mycroft’s already left you for the bedroom. You swallow, his sudden disappearance meaning more to you now than it usually would. You release a bit of a breath, steel yourself, step forwards and slip into the bedroom.

 

You don’t talk again until you've changed into your pyjamas and gotten underneath the covers. Then you roll onto your side and ask him, “Can I hold you tonight?”

 

He turns his head to look at you from where he’s lying on his back, “I'm not just going to disappear you know. I’ll still be there when you wake up,” he tells you, somehow knowingly and gently at the same time. 

 

You bite at your lip. “I know,” you breathe, shifting your position, “But I think I’d like to hold you tonight anyway.”

 

“Okay,” Mycroft nods. 

 

You switch the bedside lamp off. Then you shuffle towards him and place a hand on his chest, close to his heart. 

 

*

 

You gather everyone up that Sunday, inviting them all to the flat. 

 

It’s rather odd seeing them all standing there in the living room. Even odder to look across at all their faces as Mycroft and you stand facing them and see their various expressions. 

 

Mummy’s the most animated, she’s got this excited glow about her and your heart sinks slowly in your chest as you remember how when Mycroft had invited her she’d assumed that you’d both had an exciting announcement to make. As it happens you _will_ be announcing your upcoming nuptials today, but of course that’s not the main news you have. Father Holmes is trying to placate his wife. He’s looking a little more serious. His brow is furrowed and you get the feeling that he suspects that there’s something more to all this than just a simple happy announcement, especially since you've gathered everyone together at the same time. If it were good news then you wouldn't mind repeating it. Mrs. Hudson keeps looking in between Mycroft and you as if she’s not quite sure what she’s doing there. Greg and John both look confused and Molly looks like she’s trying to smile, but more often than not her face just keeps falling into this awkward expression as if she’s not quite sure what to do or think about it all. Sherlock is slouched by one of the armchairs. He’s doing a good job of looking like someone who doesn’t care, but you can tell by the way that his eyes are fixed almost unblinkingly on Mycroft and by the little flickering of something that crosses them every now and again that he’s paying more attention then one would initially think. 

 

Mycroft and you exchange a glance with each other. You swallow and grab at his hand. He nods and looks back at the others, clearing his throat. It’s time. 

 

He opens his mouth, but Mummy gets there first with the words, “Oh my, I can’t believe that my little Mykie’s getting married. Only yesterday it seems like”-

 

Mycroft coughs, cutting off his mother who had acted like he’d already spoken. Everyone looks at him. His mother’s brow furrows. “As it happens F/N and I _are_ getting married”- Mycroft begins, before he’s cut off by gasps of delight, which come from both Molly and Mummy, “But that’s not the reason we've called you here today,” he goes on, raising his voice above the din. Your hand tightens and he twists his own so that he can give yours a squeeze of acknowledgement. The noise that had been caused by his first announcement quietens until everyone’s just looking back at Mycroft again. Mycroft swallows. “I'm not going to keep it from you any longer. I discovered in the past week that I’ve got cancer.” A noise quite unlike the first rings about the room: Molly and Mummy let out gasps of dismay, Mrs. Hudson lets out a loud coo of shame, her eyes going to you, Father Holmes clutches at his wife’s shoulders and takes half-a-step forwards, his eyes on his eldest son and Greg’s mouth falls open, before he makes a sound of disbelief. It’s Sherlock’s reaction however that is the most worrying. He straightens up. Then, without looking at any of you, he hurries out of the flat without saying another word. Mycroft lets go of your hand and takes a step towards the door. You open your mouth, your hand instinctively reaching to pull him back because you don’t want him to leave. 

 

“I’ve got it,” John says, sending you both an even look and a nod, before he hurries out after Sherlock. 

 

Mycroft still looks at the door for a moment. He lets out a sigh, before he falls back into line with you.

 

“He’ll be okay,” you tell him both quietly and reassuringly, giving his arm a quick squeeze. 

 

He nods, his face still troubled. 

 

As one you look back to the others. 

 

Molly looks pale. Her eyes go in between you both sympathetically. You try to smile at her and show that you’re attempting to be strong and positive about all this, but you just end up grimacing at her instead. Greg’s got a hand on her shoulder, but he too looks like he doesn’t quite know what to make of it all. Father Holmes has still got his hands on his wife’s shoulders, but he lets go of her as she takes a step forwards, her face starkly pale and her eyes bulging as they look at Mycroft. “M-Mykie,” she says, her voice trembling. Your heart goes out to her. You bite down on your lip hard, trying to stop yourself from uttering out your own whimper or doing something stupid like crying. 

 

“I don’t want anyone’s sympathy,” Mycroft says, stepping forwards and swallowing. “Not even yours Mummy,” he adds with a soft smile, “I just want to get on with my life”-

 

“But it’s such a shame,” Mummy blurts out, taking another step forwards, “Everything was going so well for you. You've got a nice job, this little flat, at last you started a relationship and now because of this all of that will be interrupted and I expect that your relationship will come to an”-

 

“What do you mean?” you ask, irritation washing over you, “We’re still together.”

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft mutters, trying to placate you as he looks pleadingly back at you.

 

You've only got eyes for his mother. You bite at your lip again when you see the way that she’s looking at you. You know what she’s thinking. She’s thinking that as soon as things get a little tough you’ll be out of there. The thought of it makes you feel sick. “I won’t leave him.”

 

“Oh dear,” Mummy says, and the look she’s giving you suggests that she thinks you’re full of naivety, “You might say that now, but cancer, cancer is a dreadful”-she shakes her head-“Such a dreadful thing, oh dear”-she clutches at her mouth as tears begin to spill out over her crinkled cheeks-“Oh dear, oh dear, my poor Mykie, I”- she breaks off and Father Holmes comes forwards to comfort her. 

 

“I know that cancer is awful, I”- you begin, still feeling both a little angry and scared by her judgement of you, but when she lets out a bit of a sob into Father Holmes’s chest a moment later as Mycroft looks back at you, you don’t have the heart to go on.

 

Mycroft steps back and takes your hand. You look at him. He gives you a soft but calculating look, before he turns back to his mother. “As F/N said Mummy, she’s decided, for the present anyway, to stay with me,” he begins, and you can’t help but feel angry. Why doesn’t anyone seem to believe that you’ll stay? “I’ve told her that she’s free to go at any time,” Mycroft goes on, “For now though, what with her decision, we fully intend to get married in the future. It won’t be a long or very glamorous ceremony, probably just a brief one, but you’re invited all the same.” 

 

You swallow rapidly twice for none of Mycroft’s words agree with you very much. The sense of how unfair this all is suddenly seems to press in on you. You feel like you can’t breathe and your body begins to tremble. It’s the slightest of movements but you don’t want Mycroft to notice. You let go of his hand. He casts you a brief questioning glance. You shake your head. 

 

Knowing that for whatever reason you need a moment he looks back at the others and says, “Now, you've probably got questions, so why don’t I get us all a drink and we can talk about this in more detail, hmm?” 

 

No one has any objections so he guides his parents and Greg over to the kitchen area, his hand on his mother’s back. 

 

Mrs. Hudson and Molly go to you instead. 

 

“F/N,” Molly breathes, wrapping her arms around you. 

 

You let her hug you, feeling grateful for the gesture even though it does make all the emotions you've been trying to push down come closer to the surface. 

 

Mycroft sends a troubled glance your way as Molly holds you in her arms. His fingers still upon the bottle of whisky that he was just about to pour as he watches you both. 

 

“I'm so, so sorry,” Molly tells you as you draw back from each other, whilst Mrs. Hudson utters similar sentiments and pats at your arm. 

 

You sniff and nod, but then as soon as you look at Molly you can’t help but confess, “I-I just feel so inadequate y’know? I’ve looked up a load of stuff on-line when Myc’s at work, but when it comes down to it I can’t do anything and”- you break off, glancing at where Mycroft’s handing out glasses of whisky to his father and Greg, before he goes to pour some wine for his mother, “Mycroft’s being so ridiculously strong about it all, talking about it so matter-of-factly and”-

 

“Oh F/N,” Mrs. Hudson coos, before she draws you into a hug. “There, there,” she says, patting at your back. “You’re not useless dear I can assure you, I'm sure that Mycroft will appreciate you being there for him.” She can’t say that everything will be all right, but you smile at her gratefully all the same. At least _she_ doesn’t seem to think that you’re going to walk out at any moment.

 

“What about when he told you?” Molly asks when Mrs. Hudson and you pull away from each other, “What was he like then?” 

 

Your mind goes back to how you’d come home that day, your hands full of shopping bags and your mind oblivious and carefree for the last time, before your world fell apart. “He was frustrated,” you say, looking back at Molly, “He wanted me to leave him actually, but he-he hasn’t even cried about it. Not once, and I know that he’s not really that sort of person, but I-I just can’t help wonder how he _really_ feels about it all, and how he’s _actually_ dealing with it. He just keeps it all inside. Apart from a couple of conversations since he first told me we haven’t spoken about it at all. I want to, but I don’t know what to say to him, or how I'm supposed to bring it up if he doesn’t want me to.” As you finish you look between Molly, Mrs. Hudson and Mycroft desperately. 

 

“Well, like you say,” Molly begins in a bit of a hushed voice, “He’s not really the sort of person to talk about things like that or to get emotional about them.”

 

“Perhaps he will in time dear. It’s still recent after all,” Mrs. Hudson points out rationally. 

 

“I'm just worried about him,” you confess, finding both of their answers wholly unsatisfying. 

 

Molly doesn’t know what to say to that because of course you are, so she just hugs you again instead, whilst Mrs. Hudson looks on sadly. When Molly draws back from you however she says, “I’ll be there for you whenever you need or want to talk, all right? Day or night. And if there’s anything that either Greg or I can do then please just get in touch with us.”

 

“Thank you,” you nod, offering her a watery smile.

 

“You’re to do the same with me,” Mrs. Hudson murmurs gently, before they both pull you into a hug. 

 

*

 

You’re sitting on the settee alone that night, whilst Mycroft flutters about somewhere behind you. Finally you can’t take any more of him being there, but not there all the same. You turn and ask, “Can you sit with me? Just for a moment? _Please?”_

 

Mycroft freezes and looks across from where he’d been half-starting to make a snack for himself. His eyes go to you and then to the TV. “It’s your favourite programme,” he nods, “You don’t usually like being”-

 

“I don’t care about the programme,” you huff out a breath, gesturing again that he should come and sit down beside you. 

 

Mycroft’s mouth forms an ‘O’ shape, before he closes it, clears his throat, abandons his snack and sits beside you with a cautious sort of hurry. You smile at him tightly and cover his hand with yours. “I just want to be close to you,” you explain, before you let go of him, lean back and look at the TV screen. 

 

Mycroft glances at you and shifts his position so that his leg is against yours. For a moment he looks at the TV screen too. “Is everything all right?” he asks suddenly, looking at you intently, “Earlier with Molly you”- he breaks off. 

 

You swallow, your body tensing. You glance quickly at him, but he’s not looking at you any more. His eyes are back on the television, though his head’s slightly tilted towards you, and you can tell that he’s just waiting for your answer. “I'm sorry,” you swallow. “I guess I just can’t keep it all in like you.” There’s a trace of bitterness to your tone, but you’re not angry with him, you’re angry with yourself. Angry with yourself for calling him over just now when he should be the one seeking reassurance and comfort from you. Angry with yourself for always being the weaker one. Your fiancé’s got cancer and you’re the one who outwardly looks like they’re falling apart. 

 

He swallows, his body turning more towards you and his eyes going to you. _“F/N”-_

 

“Are we actually going to properly talk about this?” you ask, your voice full of frustration, “Because I don’t think I can cope with what we've been doing since Wednesday any more.”

 

Mycroft swallows, not knowing what to say, “I didn't really think that there _was_ much to talk about, not until the date of surgery”- he begins clumsily. 

 

You huff out a breath and bury your head in your hands momentarily, before you lift it up again. Mycroft looks at you worriedly. “Not much to talk about?” you ask, “We should talk about how it’s affecting us. How our wedding seems more like a business contract now than the one we’d ever envisioned. How, in actual fact, it will be a miracle if there is a wedding, considering that both your mother and you seem to think that I'm going to run out as soon as things get a little tough”-

 

“Mummy was”-

 

“I know to you I probably just look like some upset, silly goldfish right now, but I am not going to run out on you, no matter how hard things get,” you interrupt him huffily. “You’re important to me, and it’s about time you realized how much.” Mycroft half-opens his mouth, before he closes it again and swallows. He doesn’t quite know what to say. In the end he just settles for nodding. “Another thing,” you go on, “That we need to talk about is how it’s affecting our family and friends. I phoned my mum earlier and she was all ready to come down here and look after us. I had to hold her off. She started crying and getting upset about it all. Do you know how much that hurt me? To know that I’ve just said something that’s affected her like that?” 

 

 _“I”-_

 

“Are you going to go and see Sherlock tomorrow? Or soon at least? Make sure that he’s all right?” you cut him off. 

 

“We don’t really”-Mycroft begins awkwardly, before he breaks off and looks away from you. 

 

“How can you keep it all inside?” you ask, getting to your feet and turning to face him, “How can you act like nothing is going on here? You've got cancer! Your family and friends are hurting because of it and so are mine. I'm angry,” you reveal, pointing at him, “I'm angry that you've got this disease inside of you. Angry that I can’t do anything. And whilst I'm at it I'm angry with you for acting like everything’s fine when it’s not.” 

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft begins, standing up. 

 

“N-No,” you say when it looks as if he’s about to hug you, “It’s so unfair Myc and I don’t know how you can be so strong about it all.”

 

He puts his arms around you regardless. You push your head into his shoulder, your nose going close to his collarbone. You take a few steady breaths against him, breathing him in, whilst he rubs at your back soothingly. “I'm sorry for being this way, I know you must think that I'm so pathetic and weak,” you tell him, “I just…”

 

“You’re not weak,” he says, “I think you’re just in shock about it.” You nod and then neither of you say anything for a moment. You just focus on the feel of each other’s breathing. Your hands shift against his shirt. “Come,” he tells you with a bit of a sigh. He pulls away from you, “Let’s go to bed.”

 

Neither of you sleep much that night. 

 

*

 

Mycroft and you don’t say much to each other when he comes home the following day from work and dinner’s a mostly silent affair too. 

 

You take your time chewing your final mouthful of chicken and pasta, staring at the table as you wonder whether you should try and say something more substantial to Mycroft. Namely try and apologize for snapping at him last night. You know that was wrong of you. Know that if you’re going to get through this together like you so desperately want to and not fall apart like Mummy Holmes seems to think you will then he’s the very last person you should be venting your frustration out on. You’d probably sounded like such a whiny child...if anything he should be leaving you, not the other way around. 

 

You swallow your mouthful and put your cutlery down on your plate, not bothering too much with putting them down neatly like you usually would-you've got bigger things to worry about after all. You look at him, “About last night”- you begin, before you break off when he stops you by raising a hand. 

 

“I was hoping that you might bring that up, I wasn't quite sure how to,” he confesses, looking a bit sheepish. You stare at him, feeling a bit lighter about the fact that he’d wanted to talk about it. He bites at his lip, before he reaches a hand out across the table towards you. You look at it warily. He bites at his lip again and wriggles his fingers temptingly. You swallow, before you tell yourself off for being an idiot. You take his hand. “I went to the bone sarcoma centre again today.”

 

Your face pales and your expression becomes one of alarm, “Is everything all right?” you ask, before you wince at your choice of phrase. “I mean”- you attempt to rectify, but once more you break off when he raises the hand that’s not covered by yours to stop you. 

 

“The cancer, as far as I know, is the same as ever,” he informs you in a tone that’s both sardonic and patient. You nod awkwardly. “Actually,” he goes on, twisting his hand so that he can rub at yours and tangle your fingers with his, “I went because I thought that I might be able to get something to help you.”

 

“Help me?” you exclaim, _“You’re_ the one who’s got”- you break off embarrassedly, gesturing a little awkwardly at him with your free hand. 

 

“Yes,” he tells you, “I'm the one who’s got cancer,” and again something curls up uncomfortably inside you at the way he just manages to say such a thing so evenly. “But, as you pointed out so eloquently last night”-you flush, feeling once more embarrassed by the things you’d said and the way that you’d acted-“This goes beyond just me.” You stare at each other. 

 

Not being able to cope with the way that he’s looking at you with such a tender understanding about his face any longer, you blurt out, “I'm sorry, I should never have snapped at you like that, never have said those things…” you trail off as you struggle to find the right words. “You have every right to cope with this in whatever way you want to, I guess…I guess I just don’t want you to shut me out, not if you can help it, because that only makes me worry.” Realizing what you've just said you look down at the table and mumble, “You have every right to be selfish,” with a conflicted expression about your face. 

 

“I might have every right to, but the cancer’s hurting you enough as it is without me hurting you too. That’s why I got these,” Mycroft states. He pulls out a couple of cards from the inside pocket of his jacket, before he places them down on the table. 

 

You lean forwards slightly to look at them. 

 

“There’s a couple of phone numbers on there, and websites. I thought that if you wanted to talk, or ask any questions, but you didn't feel able to come to me or go to someone else you know then they might be of use to you,” he says, and when he finishes you notice that he looks at you rather worriedly for a moment, as if he’ s not quite sure how you’re going to react to what he’s done for you, before he looks down at the table. 

 

You feel bad again. You can’t help it. “You shouldn't have had to do that,” you say quietly. He looks up at you, again with a bit of a tentative expression on his face. “I'm going to do better from now on,” you say, squeezing at his hand, “I'm going to properly look after you and be there for you.”

 

He squeezes your hand back. “You’re doing fine F/N,” he tells you reassuringly. 

 

“I'm not,” you shake your head, “You’re being too kind, but I’ll do better from now on. I promise.”

 

He smiles. 

 

You smile bravely back at him and gather up the cards, holding them in your hands and squaring your shoulders. You’ll deal with this. You’ll be the person that you want to be about it all, and that means not backing down on issues that are important to you. “Have you heard anything about how Sherlock’s coping?” you ask, looking up at him. 

 

Mycroft swallows and looks away briefly, before he meets your gaze. “I’ve increased his surveillance and told Mrs. Hudson, Dr. Watson, Lestrade and Molly that they are to inform me immediately should they notice anything untoward. I’ve also taken the pre-caution of getting some of my people to keep an eye on the less, shall we say, appealing members of society, should Sherlock be tempted to go back to his drug-using ways again.”

 

“Shouldn't you be trying to talk to him?” you frown. 

 

“I told you”-

 

“I _know_ you told me,” you interrupt him, raising your voice above his, “But this situation isn't exactly ordinary.”

 

Mycroft laughs, “On the contrary, compared to the majority of situations that my brother finds himself in, a simple matter of family illness is quite usual.”

 

“Don’t do that,” you frown. 

 

“I”-

 

 _“No,”_ you object, “You might have given me those cards, and I'm grateful for them, but talking to a stranger isn't going to stop me from feeling upset whenever you treat this matter so casually”-you pause-“You’re not just sick Mycroft, you haven’t got the flu. You've got”- you break off, unable to go on. You stand up. 

 

“F/N, I”- Mycroft stands up and makes to step around the table towards you. 

 

“No,” you tell him, shaking your head and moving away. “I’ll be fine,” you swallow, glancing at him, “I just want to paint and be on my own for a while.” With that you stride into the spare room, taking the cards Mycroft had given you with you. The pressure that you put them under nearly bends them. 

 

As soon as you get into the room, closing the door firmly behind you, any desire that you may have had to paint fades from you. Instead you just go to the middle of the room and sink down to the floor, crossing your legs. You lay the cards down in front of you and stare at them. Anger flows through you. Anger at yourself. Anger at the situation. Anger that in less than a week everything’s been turned upside down. You try not to cry. You even bite at your lip and clench your fists to try and keep it all down, but it isn't long before the tears begin to flow. Your body shudders, sound escaping through the corners of your lips. Your eyes scrunch shut and you bow your head, your hands coming up to meet it. You properly lose control. You sob. Sob because you hate what’s already happened since Wednesday. Sob because you’re scared. Sob because you hate the fact that you’re not the person you want to be. Sob because you hate not knowing what’s going to happen and because you can’t control any of this. Sob because you can’t do anything. 

 

*

 

Mycroft thought that he hated the cancer, but when he goes across and presses his ear to the door, before he hears you weep, he hates it even more. 

 

He swallows. He knows that as much as he wants to it would not be wise for him to go in there. You've already told him that you want to be alone and he knows that he should respect that. Even if you’re crying and getting more upset about it all, if you've decided that you can’t let it out in front of him then he should just let you get it out privately. That’s what he tells himself. He does not admit that he’s scared of what going in there would do to him. Scared seeing you as you break down so completely would only make him feel even angrier and more helpless. Helpless that now he’s brought this grenade into your life he can’t stop it from exploding and from hurting you further still. Helpless that he can’t look after you and protect you from it as he so desperately wants to. 

 

He shakes his head, ridding himself of such thought. He can’t stay here. He turns on his heel and hurries out of the flat. 

 

*

 

You hear the soft thud of the door closing and your sobs catch in your chest. He can’t have left you surely? Surely he should be barging in, taking you in his arms and telling you that everything’s going to be all right even though he doesn’t know that any more than you do? Shivering a little, you rise to your feet, wrap your arms clumsily around yourself and go across to peep out of the room. The flat’s empty. He’s gone. You feel surprised, but as such a reality seeps in, not shocked. You swallow a couple of times, before you go and fetch your laptop.

 

*

 

You’re in bed by the time Mycroft comes home, with your back turned towards the door, but keeping an ear out for him nonetheless. 

 

The cards he’d given you lay crumpled on top of the bedside cabinet, at the bottom of the lamp. 

 

He sighs a little upon shuffling into the room and seeing them. Not to mention seeing the way that you’re curled up in bed in the fetal position. You hear him crossing to the lamp on his side. He switches it on. 

 

A soft, warm glow illuminates you. You know that if you were to roll over, or simply turn your head, you’d be able to see Mycroft, but after what had happened earlier, and after what you've found out since, you’re not sure if you can face him. You shift your leg closer to your chest instead, whilst your ears pick up on the soft sounds of him undressing. There’s movement of the duvet a couple of moments later. You feel a slight chill, before everything goes warm again when the mattress dips and he pulls the duvet over him. You stiffen. You can feel his eyes on your back and hear the clearing of his throat. Still, even though your heart hitches in your chest you don’t say a word. 

 

“I went to the Diogenes Club if you’re wondering,” Mycroft announces, “To think.” 

 

You swallow. “How did that go for you?” you ask, rolling around so that you’re facing him. 

 

He’s on his back. He peers down at you for a moment, before he sighs, “It wasn't hugely successful I must say.”

 

There’s a long pause, one where your brow furrows and you prod at his side thoughtfully with your finger. 

 

He lifts his head up to watch your work. He stares at the way you frown. “I think you might be right”-you stop your prodding and look up at him to raise your eyebrows at this momentous occasion-“I think perhaps we _do_ need to talk a bit more about all this.” He rolls towards you, wincing a little in pain, but you, withdrawing your hand back so that he won’t squash it, don’t notice. “So,” he murmurs, once you’re looking at him again, “I'm going to ask you, out of everything right now, what’s the thing that’s worrying you the most?”

 

You bow your head. Your first thought is him dying, but that seems more like a long-term worry and not the one that should be on your mind most at present. “I-the surgery I guess.”

 

 _“Oh?”_ Mycroft says, one of his eyebrows quirking up. You look at him. He puts a hand on your waist. “And what about that particularly worries you?”

 

You chew on your lip, before you heave out a sigh and roll onto your back. Mycroft eyes you curiously, shuffling a little closer to you. You take his hand and place it underneath your pyjama top over your stomach. You trace around his fingers. “It going wrong I suppose, or it not working to the extent we want it to,” you say. Your words seem to float right up to the ceiling. “You said that your stage”-

 

“2b”-

 

 _“Yes,_ that it means the cancer’s already spread outside the bone wall, so”- you begin, making more and more erratic movements against his hand. Mycroft swats it with his own, covering it up, before he squeezes your hand to your belly-“I guess what I'm wondering is”- you look at him-“What if the surgery doesn’t take it all out? What if it’s already”- you break off. 

 

“Too late?” Mycroft heaves out a sigh. 

 

“Yes,” you say, sounding more upset, and when you begin to wriggle about restlessly Mycroft wraps an arm around you, holding you there and pushing his nose against the curve of your breast. You let out a breath at his steadying touch. “Or what if they find that it’s really difficult to take out in the first place and you have to have-you have to have a leg amputation?”

 

Mycroft stiffens, before he leans back from you. “You've been doing more reading on-line,” he murmurs. It’s more of a statement than a question. 

 

You sit up, pushing him away from you. “So what if I have?” you ask him a little defensively as he sits up too. “Where else am I going to get the information from? _You?”_

 

“That’s why I gave you the”-

 

“I want to know from _you,_ Mycroft,” you tell him roughly, staring hard at the wall, “I want you to tell me about what’s being discussed as far as _your_ treatment and _your_ individual case is concerned. I don’t want to be left out of the communication, and I don’t want you to hide things from me just because they might upset me.” 

 

He slides his hand carefully on top of your arm, “I can assure you that whatever you've read or heard”-

 

“What? It’s not as bad as I think?” you exclaim, looking at him, “Do you know what I read tonight? Twenty-nine per cent,” you utter, and you can instantly tell that Mycroft knows what you mean because his face goes white underneath the lamplight. “Twenty-nine per cent. That’s the odds of you making it five years.”

 

_“I”-_

 

“Don’t you dare,” you say, and his hand jerks off your arm as you point a finger at him, “Don’t you dare say that, that’s not as bad as I think, or that the people who came up with the figure didn't know what they’re doing”- 

 

“Maybe they didn't,” he interrupts you, his voice strong, frustrated. 

 

“There’s been research done,” your voice overrides his. You’re angry, unable to listen to reason or to the part of you that wants to calm down. You push and kick the duvet off and get out of bed, turning towards the window instead of him. “There’s been research done, and I _hate_ it”-

 

“I”-

 

“I want _more_ than five years!” you half-shout, turning back to him, and if you’d been a bit calmer than you’d be able to appreciate the fact that Mycroft looks scared, cowed and oddly unsure of what on earth he should do. But you’re too wound up to see that, so you plough on, “I want to grow old with you! I want us to be buying Zimmer frames and talking about the past together! I want to watch your hair slowly turn grey and fall out! I want us to be drinking tea and eating cake in front of our children who will shake their heads at us fondly!” Mycroft blanches and you let out a breath. “What I _don’t_ want,” you say, kicking out at the desk chair angrily and making Mycroft flinch, “Is this! Cancer and surgery and this _shit_ ”- you break off and let out a sob. You’d barely even noticed Mycroft getting up as you’d been yelling, but suddenly his arms are all around you and you’re sinking to the floor and he’s crouched beside you, whispering reassurances into your ear. “Oh God,” you hiccup as he rocks you back and forth. You sob against him, until, finally all spent, you just find yourself leaning against his shoulder exhaustedly. 

 

He brushes at your hair, and the strokes he makes get firmer and more rapid as he says, “Do you think that I don’t want that too? Do you really think that I want this in my life? In _your_ life? Do you think that I'm not angry? That I'm not sad? That all this does not affect me? Just because I have a better way of covering”-

 

“Then _tell_ me,” you choke out, pulling back from him, “ _Please,_ just tell me. Don’t leave me out of this any more”-Mycroft opens his mouth-“I _know_ I won’t be able to change anything, that I won’t be able to make it better for you and that will _hurt,_ but please, please just tell me about everything that’s going on at the clinic, everything that’s being talked about and more importantly about your _feelings._ I just can’t deal with being kept out of everything any more”- 

 

He kisses your forehead and pulls your head to his shoulder. “All right,” he breathes, “All right, I’ll keep you more informed. I’ll try and do better and take your feelings into account. I just wish I could-I want”- he breaks off. There’s a pained, wistful expression on his face.

 

“To protect me, I know,” you nod with damp eyes against him, realizing that, right at this moment in time you both need one another just as much. Mycroft nods, and you cup at his cheek, smiling up at him in a watery fashion, before he slowly guides you back to bed. 

 

You don’t let go of each other all night.

 

*

 

That next day, when Mycroft’s at work, you go around to 221B, determined to talk to Sherlock since Mycroft shows no signs of doing so.

 

“Oh F/N,” Mrs. Hudson coos as she opens the door to you, her lips half-torn between a smile and a frown of great concern, “How are you?” she asks, patting at your arms, “How is Mycroft keeping?”

 

Your mouth opens and you nod consideringly, “He-I…we’re-we’re doing okay thank you.” 

 

The lines on her face seem to deepen, “You know that I meant what I said before don’t you? I want to be there for you. You can come around here whenever you feel like it. We can have a bit of a natter and watch some rubbish on TV,” she says, stepping back to admit you. 

 

You nod, “I do, thank you.” You close the door behind you and hesitate for a moment, before you ask, “I-Is Sherlock in?”

 

Mrs. Hudson leans a little closer to you, “He is dear, but he’s a bit ratty today. John’s gone to the supermarket to escape.”

 

You frown. Sherlock must be bad if John can actually see going food shopping as a winning alternative to spending time in his company. Still, you think, squaring your shoulders, it’s important that you do this. 

 

“Do you have to see him today dear? Perhaps-?”

 

“I’ll be fine,” you reassure her. She pats at your arms understandingly, before she shuffles off back down the hallway. 

 

You take the stairs quickly, so that you’ll have less time to back out. You enter the sitting room with a determined bounce. 

 

Sherlock had been standing by the window that overlooks the street, but he crosses to his usual armchair and throws himself into it, barely giving you more than a curt nod and an utterance of your name as he does so. 

 

You stop and observe the way he takes his violin off the side table and plucks idly at it for a moment. It’s clear to you that he’d been playing it just before you came and had only abandoned it when he’d heard you downstairs. You go across and sit down cautiously in John’s chair. 

 

“I thought you’d come eventually,” he glances at you, before his eyes go back to his violin. “I expect my brother sent you to spy on me?” 

 

“He didn't actually,” you swallow, before you can’t help but add, “You’re both being as evasive about this as each other,” whilst you run your hands down to your knees. A glimmer of something that’s almost like a smile flickers upon Sherlock’s face, before it dims and fades completely when you ask, “How are you?”

 

Sherlock looks down and sends a high-pitched twang of noise into the air, before he looks at you, one of his eyebrows rising.

 

“I'm wondering how you've been doing since Mycroft’s news,” you elaborate, before you look down at your knees. 

 

Sherlock’s lip curls, “Mycroft’s news?” he questions, “Is my brother dead already?” 

 

 _“No,”_ you say, rising to your feet and barely realizing that you’re doing it. 

 

“Then I don’t see that there’s anything to discuss”-

 

“For God’s sake Sherlock”- you gasp with an incredulous air of, _‘Not you too.’_

 

“For God’s sake?” Sherlock questions, putting his violin aside and crossing his legs, “You might like to react to all this with a fervent discussion of treatments and possible scenarios, but I, and my brother as you've clearly realized”- he gives a delicate pause and your fists clench-“Wish to act with a bit more decorum”-

 

 _“Decorum?!”_ you explode at the same time that John comes bursting into the room, “I don’t see how avoiding the issue and acting like everything’s fine is anything other than you both being silly and childish! You think that I don’t want to avoid this? I’ve already had enough of thinking about it! I hate all of it, but not being able to discuss it with either of you is just making everything”- 

 

“F/N”- John begins, interrupting you and dropping his bags of shopping either side of the door. He comes to put a hand on your arm. 

 

You step away from him, “It’s fine John, I just”- you shake your head at Sherlock, before you whirl around and leave.

 

*

 

Mycroft comes home to find you drying up. 

 

You slam a bowl you've just dried down onto the counter. You hear him stop by the door. You lean forwards and let out a little breath. “Are all Holmes’s built with a mechanism that prevents them from discussing anything of importance or is that just your brother and you?” you ask. 

 

 _“Ah,”_ Mycroft murmurs, delicately putting his briefcase down and putting his umbrella in the holder. You hear him padding towards you a moment later, so you put the blue dishcloth down and turn around. “But before you take it upon yourself to include me in the same category as my dear brother I should not only remind you of my promise last night, but probably warn you that I’ve done something today, which I think will cheer you up.”

 

“Myc”-

 

“It occurred to me,” he says, looking unusually nervous as he stops in front of you, “That I hadn’t got you an engagement ring, so”- he breaks off to fumble inside his trouser pocket, “Let me do things properly.” He pulls out a small red velvet box and sends you a bit of a tight smile as he opens it. “F/N L/N,” he says, taking your hand in his and guiding it across until you come to be the one holding the box, “Will you, for the second time, do me the great honour of agreeing to marry me?”

 

Your initial reaction, as you stare down, is both awe and joy. The ring’s beautiful, a tiny, delicate piece that sends delight running through you. Mycroft, who looks down at you with a breathless sort of trepidation about his face, his eyes sparkling as he realizes that you like the ring, couldn't look any more handsome. But then, as your eyes flit down to the ring again and the fact that this is not a normal, happy engagement floods back to you, you feel both sick and upset. You push the box roughly back to him. He splutters something unintelligible as he accepts it and looks at you in confusion. “You’ll have to take it back,” you tell him, attempting to move past him. 

 

He fumbles for your arm at the exact same time you knock into his shoulder. The ring goes flying out of the box and slides across the floor, disappearing somewhere beneath the counter. Mycroft’s breath catches in his chest. You let out a sob, raise your hand to your mouth and quickly go to the bedroom. Mycroft half-makes to go after you, before he stops, lets out a sigh and turns back to the counter with a furrowed brow. 

 

*

 

You’re lying with your back turned to him again when he walks into the bedroom twenty-minutes later. You feel one of the bottom corners of the duvet sinking down and burrow your head more firmly into your elbows. 

 

“It wasn't easy, but I managed to get the ring out,” Mycroft murmurs, clearing his throat, “I’d appreciate it if you could at least look at it properly, before I take it back.”

 

You swallow, and for a moment you imagine yourself doing what he wants. Imagine swinging blearily upwards and consenting to look at it. But then the moment passes. You push your nose further down. _“Why?”_ you mumble. “What’s the point of looking at it if you’re taking it back?”

 

Mycroft lets out a frustrated breath. “It’s unique,” he says, “One of a kind, like you.”

 

There’s something grudging about his tone, and slowly, before you even know what you’re doing, you’re sitting up and turning ever so slightly to face him. 

 

His jacket is off, his sleeves are rolled up and his hair is unusually ruffled. He looks handsome. He eyes you calculatingly, before he passes the ring that he’s been holding between two of his fingers to you. 

 

You take it and hold it up to your eyes. The small stone sparkles, even in the fading daylight, but it’s only when you notice the light catching on something inside the ring that you peer forwards to look at it even more. Mycroft fails to hold back a smile. The words: _My Heart_ are printed there. 

 

He shuffles forwards and places a hand delicately upon your arm. “You see,” he murmurs, “Neither of us might know what the future holds, _or_ how far this cancer will spread, but I do know one thing”-your eyes lock and his fingers slide across your arm like a dancer twirling about the floor-“It will never spread to my heart because you've already taken it,” he finishes. It’s the cheesiest thing he’s ever said to you, but he says it with such sincerity that it makes your heart melt. 

 

In fact you nearly cry as you look down and tease, “Did you spend all afternoon coming up with that when you were supposed to be doing paperwork?” You look at him again. 

 

“I have been doing a lot of multi-tasking today, yes,” he smiles. 

 

You smile, before your face becomes more serious as you look back to the ring. “It’s beautiful,” you breathe, and he leans in so that you can share a kiss. Your foreheads bump together as you come out of it. “But I thought we agreed,” you pull away, “That we wouldn't waste any money”-

 

“Proving my love for you isn't a waste,” Mycroft interrupts firmly. 

 

You let out a soft sigh, “But that’s just my point though, I _know_ you love me, I don’t need”-

 

“Would you just let your fiancé do this one thing for you?” Mycroft murmurs, “You can’t have the wedding you deserve, so will you, at the very least accept this token of my love? To allow me to feel better about myself if nothing else?”-

 

“Oh Myc,” you murmur, cupping at his face with your free hand, “You've got no reason to feel bad about yourself, you’re”- you break off when he kisses you twice, softly, _lingeringly._ “Okay,” you breathe, “Okay, you don’t have to take it back, but that’s the last- _ah!”-_ you stop talking, as, with a fierce, satisfied growl, he goes to claim your neck. You just about manage to slip the ring on so that you won’t lose it, before you arch your head back to give him better access. He shifts forwards, his hands going to your back, but he lets out a sharp little breath. “Your hip,” you mutter with a concerned breathlessness. 

 

“Don’t you know?” he murmurs, “That for tonight the cancer doesn’t exist?” his nose nudges against your neck. His lips go back there. You let out a little moan as he begins to suck.

 

“I don’t want you to get hurt”- you pant, your hands scrabbling for purchase against him. 

 

His lips stop any further protest you may have made by smothering them with his own. He pushes you down, grunting a little as he falls on top of you. It’s not long before you’re writhing beneath him and crying out in pleasure.

 

*

 

That next Friday evening you find yourself going to 221B again, this time with Mycroft in tow.

 

“Oh dears,” Mrs. Hudson says as she opens the door to you, and her eyes are full of a sympathy, which you know Mycroft doesn’t want.

 

“Hi Mrs. Hudson, we’re just popping in to call on Sherlock actually. Is he in?” you say, giving her a quick hug, before you pull back again and step inside. 

 

“We know he’s in,” Mycroft mutters, following you, “I told you, the CCTV”-

 

You throw him a warning look over your shoulder and he shuts up at once. You've had enough of him today. You’d practically had to force him into coming here as it is. “Yes,” you say with a forced sort of patience, “But _normal_ people aren't accustomed to others having CCTV at their beck and call whenever they feel like it, so these are the sorts of questions that you have to ask to make them feel comfortable.” As you finish you turn back to face Mrs. Hudson. 

 

She looks between you both with a bit of a smile. You find yourself cooling off a little when you see it, but Mycroft only stiffens. “Yes he’s in, he’s just upstairs with John actually, and I haven’t heard them having a domestic so you should be safe,” she says. 

 

“How kind of you to act as a warning system as well as a landlady,” Mycroft tells her, stepping beside you.

 

“Ignore him,” you say, linking his arm with yours and pulling him close to you in admonition, “And don’t dare pity him, it’s not the cancer making him act this way, he’s just being his usual insufferable self.” Mycroft shoots you a bit of a look. _“What?”_ you ask, peering up at him, “You were the one who said that you didn't want anyone’s sympathy, so don’t think that I'm going to let you get away with being rude to one of my friends.”

 

You turn back to Mrs. Hudson. “Shall I bring up a pot of tea dears?” she asks.

 

“No, this won’t be a long visit,” Mycroft says, before you can stop him. Your arm tightens against his like a python wrapped around prey. He swallows. 

 

“No thank you Mrs. Hudson,” you say, more politely. She nods, before she bustles back towards her flat. “If you’re going to act like that then you can let me lead,” you tell him, shaking him off you, before you move quickly upstairs. 

 

Mycroft follows you with a sigh. He longs for it to be night, so that he can put this dreadful day behind him. He'd had a long day at work, and then you'd decided to drag him here. 

 

“Hey,” you say as soon as you enter the 221B sitting room to find Sherlock and John sitting in both of their usual armchairs. 

 

They glance at you, before Sherlock’s nose wrinkles and he looks down as Mycroft enters the room behind you. 

 

John however stands up at Mycroft’s presence and says, “Hi F/N. Mycroft, do you want to”- he gestures at the chair he’s just vacated. 

 

The fake smile, resembling toothache that Mycroft’s wearing, tightens, “That won’t be necessary. I assure you that I'm not at death’s door yet. Though I'm sure my brother would find it most amusing if I were to die, before my surgery date”-

 

Your mouth tumbles open, just as Sherlock says; “Actually, I’d find it more amusing if you died in the operating theatre.”

 

Mycroft thinks about it for barely a second, “Ah, but of course,” he says with a twisted smile, “With so much flesh on show.”

 

 _“Boys,”_ John says warningly, and both Mycroft and Sherlock glance at him, before they look at you when John nods in your direction. 

 

You’re standing there with your face pale and your hands clenched so tightly that they’re nearly bone white. Every now and then you keep swallowing, as if you’re trying to keep it all in. 

 

Something flickers across Mycroft’s eyes. He shifts closer to you, “It’s okay,” he says very quietly so that only you can hear, bending his head down towards your ear. 

 

“It’s not”, you say, raising a trembling hand to wipe away the tears that have begun to fall. You swallow rapidly. “M-Mycroft wanted to ask you a question,” you say, looking at Sherlock to try and get your mind off how you’re currently feeling.

 

John sits down so that you have a better view of the consulting detective. Sherlock nods, before he sits cross-legged upon his chair and rests his chin atop his hands, which are in a prayer position. You swallow, looking at Mycroft. You've got him this far, but he has to take himself the rest of the way. 

 

He swallows too and places a hand on your back for the briefest of moments as he moves past you and steps closer towards his brother. “I want you to be my best man,” he says.

 

Sherlock snorts and lowers his hands, “Finally looked at your phone book and saw that when it comes to people you can really trust it was as empty as mine did you?” 

 

“Sherlock, please don’t make this difficult,” you say in a weary tone, stepping forwards.

 

Sherlock looks in between you both with a calculating expression on his face, “Fine,” he mutters, “Now if you don’t mind I'm very busy, so”- he gestures to the door. 

 

“Yes, you seemed so exceptionally busy when we first came in that I was quite fearful of disturbing you,” Mycroft says sardonically, before he makes to leave, but-

 

“Say thank you,” you order. 

 

Mycroft turns, looks at you and grimaces a little when you nod to Sherlock. His eyes go to his brother. “Thank you,” he says grudgingly. 

 

You let out a breath of your own, before with one final nod at them all you lead the way out of the flat. 

 

You don’t talk to Mycroft all the way home.

 

*

 

“I don’t see why the both of you have to make everything so damn difficult,” you huff out as soon as you enter the flat, making your way to the coffee table, tossing your bag off to the side and sitting down with one knee underneath you on the settee. 

 

“It’s called being a Holmes,” Mycroft says, trying to lighten the atmosphere as he goes across to make a cup of tea for you both, “It’s what we do.” He finds that he feels considerably better now he’s back home, but you seem to be worse than ever.

 

As if to prove the point you say, “Well I wish you wouldn't.” 

 

“Does this mean you’re having second thoughts about marrying me?” Mycroft asks, placing a teabag in each cup, “Will I have to go all the way back to 221B just to tell my intolerable brother that he’s not best man after all?”

 

“No, of course not,” you say, turning your head to look at him, “And no,” you add with a bit of a smile, “I’ve had enough visiting 221B once today, it’s just you know I hate it when you talk about dying so casually. I don't see why you have to”-

 

“I think if we didn't treat things the way we do,” Mycroft cuts you off, as the kettle makes more noise as it gets closer to boil, “Then with the types of minds we have, if we really faced everything sometimes then…” he trails off with a bit of a shrug, before he makes an exploding gesture with his hands. 

 

You don’t like the look in his eyes. You stand up and turn to face him. “How close is this to the breaking point of everything?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft’s face lightens a little and comes to have a soft glow upon it in the dying daylight of spring. “Oh, this, this is difficult, but it’s not close. I shall have my surgery, and then we shall see. But I’ve got the strongest of feelings that I shall get through it, and I'm not just saying that my dear.” You sit down again, looking more relieved. _“But,”_ he says, looking at you with a painful sort of honesty about his face, “If it were to come back at some point”-

 

You stand up. “If it does then we’ll face it when it happens,” you tell him as you go across to him.

 

He looks down at you, and strokes at your hair very lightly with the back of his hand. The look in his eyes tells you that he wants to get a message across. “I know, but I need you to know, especially before we commit ourselves properly to marriage, that even if I'm in remission, this is something that could very well follow us around for a long time”-

 

You take his hands in yours as he breaks off and lean up on your tiptoes to peck him on the lips. “I know,” you tell him, “I’ll be there with you though”-

 

“Even when I'm being my ‘insufferable self?’” Mycroft asks, quoting you from earlier. 

 

You let out a choked sort of snort. “You know I hate it when you’re rude to Mrs. Hudson,” you tell him, before you nod, “Every step of the way.” 

 

Mycroft’s eyes dance with a gentle light. You kiss him. 

 

* 

 

April comes, as does the Monday of your wedding. It’s a simple, understated affair in a reception office close to the heart of town-a perk that Mycroft had managed to secure at such speed and at a knock-down price simply because of his position in the world. Only a handful of people attend. Mycroft’s parents are there. Mummy sobs noisily into a handkerchief, before the service has even begun and Father Holmes tries to quieten her by patting her on the shoulder. Your own mother’s mouth is tight and her eyes waver with unshed tears. Molly acts as your one and only bridesmaid. Mrs. Hudson keeps a careful eye on everyone. John and Greg both look serious. As you walk down the aisle between the rows of largely empty red chairs however you see that Sherlock is nowhere in sight. Your eyes dart to John who’s standing beside Mycroft in Sherlock’s stead and your brow furrows. 

 

Mycroft though has only got eyes for you, and despite the clear confusion that’s on your face he still thinks you look beautiful. He’s glad that he managed to persuade you to spend a small amount on the figure accentuating ivory satin dress you’re wearing, whilst Molly has managed to save you both money by doing your hair and make-up for you. Your hair is on the top of your head, the strands spurting out in waves, whilst your cheeks are dusted with a light blusher and your lips ensnared in a dark red lipstick. 

 

You finally stop looking at John in puzzlement and your eyes go to your husband to be shyly. Mycroft catches you letting out a little breath, whilst he shifts his position and watches as your eyes roam down, taking him in. 

 

He’s wearing his most expensive grey, pinstriped three-piece suit with a gold tie and pocket-handkerchief to match. He looks incredibly handsome, and staring at him, you feel like a normal bride for one moment, stunned that he’s actually yours and that you’re moments away from marrying him. 

 

He takes your hands in his, and as your bodies come to bump against each other’s briefly you smile timidly at one another. 

 

When you catch John smiling awkwardly behind Mycroft however your face darkens. _“Sherlock?”_ you question in a low voice, looking back at the man who is, for these last few moments, still your fiancé. 

 

Mycroft shakes his head ever so slightly. “It doesn’t matter,” he breathes, his fingers rubbing at yours soothingly. 

 

You frown because it does, but you don’t say anything more. 

 

The registrar steps forwards to begin the service, and again, when you begin to exchange your vows and you look into Mycroft’s blue eyes and feel a mad, tidal wave of butterflies inside your stomach, you feel close to normal. It’s just after Mycroft kisses you that the magic begins to fade. 

 

You husband lets go of you and turns to face the onlookers, before he steps forwards. “Since we won’t be having a reception”- your heart sinks, for even though you don’t much feel like one it’s still what normal people do. Normal people eat, laugh, get drunk and be merry after a wedding. They don’t have to feel the desperate desire to spend every moment that they can with their new husband because they don’t know what will happen in a few days time-“I wanted to say a few words now.” Mycroft looks over his shoulder at you and you force a smile onto your face. Looking almost satisfied he turns to his audience again, “Firstly, I wanted to thank you all for taking time out of your day to come here and be with us. It means a great deal to both F/N and I. Secondly, these past few weeks, as you all know, have been a little tricky, but I want you to know, and in particular I want F/N, my beautiful wife, to know”-he looks back at you again to see that you’re smiling at him in an emotional fashion-“That seeing her today, coming towards me, and knowing that she is beside me, have made the last few weeks worthwhile.” He smiles awkwardly at everyone, before he steps back and shares a brief kiss with you. There’s a ripple of applause and a chorus of ‘ahh’s,’ whilst Mummy Holmes blows her nose loudly into her handkerchief. 

 

You pat at your husband’s chest. “Thank you,” you murmur as you come out of the kiss, knowing that it couldn't have been easy to share his feelings like that, but aware too that he’d done it for your sake.

 

Mycroft nods, kisses the top of your head and holds you close to him with one arm. You tilt your head, brushing against him. 

 

Documents are signed and a few more photographs are taken. Then, one by one, everyone that’s there begin to come up to you, before they depart. 

 

First comes John, looking a little sheepish, “F/N hey, congratulations. Sorry about Sherlock he”- John breaks off when Mycroft sends him a dark, warning look and hugs you quickly so that you won’t notice. “Well, you know how he is,” John finishes inelegantly. You nod, whilst Mycroft smiles serenely at John’s final words on the matter. 

 

Mrs. Hudson comes next, pulling you into a hug. “Oh F/N,” she says, and you notice that her eyes look watery. “You look wonderful dear. Truly wonderful.”

 

“Thank you,” you murmur, knowing that she’s kindly choosing to ignore your red-rimmed eyes and the bags that are underneath them. You watch as she pats Mycroft awkwardly on the arm, before she moves after John. You can imagine her fretting as she goes back to Baker Street in a cab. Imagine her telling John, ‘Oh dear, I felt so bad, but I just didn't know what to say. Should you ignore these things?’ You wonder if you should go after her for a moment, but suddenly Molly and Greg are in front of you. 

 

 _“F/N!”_ Molly squeals hugging you. You smile at her enthusiasm. “I can’t believe you’re married!”

 

“I can’t believe it either,” you say with a bit of a watery smile, whilst Mycroft and Greg nod at each other. 

 

“Hey F/N,” Greg says when his attention turns to you, “We've got to dash off, but congratulations yeah?” he squeezes at your shoulder and gives you a bit of a calculating look. You nod and smile at him, trying to be brave. Molly gives you another quick hug. 

 

It’s when they both move aside and suddenly your mother’s standing in front of you that your emotions really get the better of you. Suddenly you find yourself moving forwards towards her and letting out a bit of a choked laugh. She hugs you back with damp eyes. 

 

“I’ll look after her Mrs. L/N,” Mycroft says with a soft assurance about his tone when you finally break apart. 

 

She lets out a bit of a gurgle and squeezes at his arm. “You’re a good man,” she tells him, patting him clumsily, “No matter what happens I'm glad my F/N found you.”

 

“Mum _please”-_ you say, dabbing at your damp face with the back of your hands. 

 

“As am I Mrs. L/N,” Mycroft murmurs, putting a firm hand around your waist. “As am I.” 

 

Your mother, looking choked with emotion, leaves a few moments later. Perhaps you’ll ring her tonight you think, or tomorrow at the very latest. You've got to remember that she needs support too. 

 

Mycroft’s parents gather around you. You receive a kindly pat on your shoulder from Father Holmes and a brief hug from Mummy Holmes whose hands claw against your shoulders, before she engulfs Mycroft around his middle. 

 

Your husband lets out a bit of a breath. 

 

“Come now Vi, give the boy some space,” Father Holmes says, attempting to pull her off with firm but gentle hands. 

 

“Oh Mykie, let me look at you,” Mummy Holmes says. Mycroft bends down so that she can cradle his face in her hands. 

 

“I'm fine Mummy,” Mycroft says a little embarrassedly, “Just like I was fine yesterday and the day before that.”

 

She lets out a gurgle. “You silly boy,” she says fondly, “Always trying to reassure your old mother.” She strokes at his face, before she finally steps back and allows her husband to pull her away. She sniffs and fidgets with her hands for a moment, before she looks between Mycroft and you. “It’s a shame…such a shame that your brother’s finding things so difficult and that he couldn't be here today.”

 

You stiffen at once, your skin prickling all over with irritation. 

 

Mycroft looks towards you, “Mummy,” he begins, looking back at his mother, but-

 

“I think I’ll take this opportunity to go and get changed,” you announce firmly, before you grab the bag of clothes that you've left off to the side and march out of the room. 

 

“I wish you hadn’t mentioned Sherlock, Mummy. It upsets F/N,” is what you hear Mycroft saying on your way out. 

 

“Never mind her,” Mummy scoffs, _“You’re_ the one who’s got cancer,” and you find yourself feeling all the more irritated. Mycroft might be the one who has cancer, but does that mean that your own feelings are unimportant? Especially when they’re probably, deep down, on the same wavelength as his? You know how much it would have meant to him to have Sherlock there today, although he’d never admit it. 

 

You make an annoyed sound as you hurry to the bathroom. You fume and take a couple of deep breaths once you shut yourself inside a cubicle. How can Mrs. Holmes just expect you to feel sorry for Sherlock when Sherlock’s the one making everything harder? What with him being so childish and almost refusing to be Mycroft’s best man just out of pettiness? Sherlock’s the one after all whose not turned up today and whose let you down, and Mrs. Holmes expects you to feel sorry for him? Everyone’s finding it difficult, but no one else has not shown up you think crossly, undoing your hair’s restraints and beginning to frantically tug the dress off, huffing and very nearly tearing it when it refuses to part with your body. 

 

You’re exhausted by the time you finally get it off and you’re just standing there in your underwear, both from wrestling with the dress and from feeling so emotional about everything. A choked sob almost escapes you as you pant, whilst you lean against the wall. 

 

You take a few moments, whilst a toilet flushes in the background, to just feel annoyed with Sherlock and the entire situation some more, before you change quickly into a f/c top and jeans, stuffing the dress you've only worn for just over a couple of hours into a plastic bag without much care. 

 

When you get out of the toilets and turn right back into the hall it’s to find that Mycroft’s waiting at the bottom of it, close to the draught that’s coming in through the open front doors. You feel instantly annoyed with him when you see him there. If he catches a cold and can’t have his surgery because of this then you won’t be happy. He, on the other hand, looks troubled but relieved as soon as he sees you. 

 

“What are you doing there?” you ask as soon as you reach him, “You should be somewhere warmer.”

 

“I was waiting for you,” he says reproachfully, not liking how you’re talking to him on today of all days, before he adds, “I took the liberty of ordering us a cab. It’s waiting outside.” As you both begin to make your way outside he asks, “Where’s your dress?” with a furrowed brow. You nod jerkily at the plastic bag that’s swinging from your hand. “In there?” he questions in alarm, “You should have brought a hanger, it’ll get all”-

 

“It doesn’t matter,” you snap as you quickly hurry down the stone steps.

 

“But you looked so beautiful in it. I thought you liked it,” Mycroft utters as he tears after you. 

 

“I do,” you say as you make it to the cab and tug the door open, “But it’s over now,” you murmur softly, as you begin to clamber inside. The words are spoken too quietly for Mycroft to hear.

 

He shuffles inside after you and after he tells the driver where to go there’s a prominent silence. Mycroft turns his head to look at you. His fingers, which had been fidgeting cease, “F/N, I”-

 

“Not here Mycroft,” you breathe, before you swing your head away from him so that you can look out of the window and at the height of the damp buildings, which surround you underneath the dreary London sky. Then something comes over you and you lean forwards to ask the driver, “Actually, could you take us to 221B, Baker Street instead?”

 

The driver gives a nod of consent, but Mycroft clutches at your arm and says, “F/N, I'm not sure if”-

 

“I don’t care what you think,” you fire back, shrugging his hand off you, “It’s about time someone was as brutally honest with your brother as he is with everyone else.” 

 

Mycroft looks at you pleadingly for another moment, before he lets out a sigh and turns to face the front when it’s clear that your mind won’t be changed. His eyes briefly dart up to meet those of the cab driver who’s sending him a sympathetic look in the windscreen mirror, before they dart down again. His hands return to fidgeting on his knees. 

 

*

 

Once you reach Baker Street you let the knocker fall roughly against the door several times, before you yell, “Sherlock! Open up! I know you’re in there!”

 

Mycroft’s feet do a little uncertain dance on the pavement. “F/N, please, let us go home. You’re causing a scene,” he pleads in between looking up and down the street to find that you’re both attracting a few curious glances.

 

You toss your head, ignore him and clang the knocker against the door. 

 

Finally it opens to reveal a flustered looking Mrs. Hudson, “I was just changing. F/N dear, what on earth are you doing here? Shouldn't you be”-

 

“I'm sorry Mrs. H, but I can’t just ignore what’s happened and”- you break off, push past her and hurry upstairs. 

 

Mycroft dashes after you, causing a cry of surprise to leave Mrs. Hudson’s lips, before she takes after you both.

 

John turns around with a start from where he’s been standing over Sherlock and giving him a lecture as the consulting detective sits in his usual armchair when you, Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson all tumble into the room. “What”- the doctor begins, but you ignore him and march over to where Sherlock’s sat, making John step aside. 

 

“F/N,” Sherlock says coolly, before you can speak, “I thought that by now you’d be doing all manner of unspeakable things with my brother.”

 

“Yes,” you huff, “Perhaps I would be if you’d decided to show up! What on _earth_ is wrong with you?” you ask. Sherlock’s jaw twitches and Mycroft’s hand darts uncertainly towards you, before it draws back again. “When someone asks you to be their best man you show up! And when that someone’s your brother whose got cancer and he’s going through potentially life-changing surgery in a few days time you make sure to show up even more! You don’t just stay away because you’re scared and too damn selfish to face what’s going on here! You think that I'm, or anyone else for that matter is having the time of their life right now? You”-you break off and make to hit Sherlock’s chest, “Selfish-ignorant-bastard!” You hit him on every pause and John starts, before a pale-faced Mycroft hurries forwards, grabs you around the middle and tries to pull you back. “Let go of me!” you cry in an enraged fashion as you flail against him.

 

Mrs. Hudson hurries out of the room with a loud cry of anxiety. 

 

“F/N, please,” Mycroft breathes shakily into your ear as he tries to keep hold of you, “Please calm down.” 

 

You shake your head against him, but he manages to pull you back enough to allow Sherlock to stand up. The two brothers eye each other for a moment. Sherlock with an air of disgust about him and Mycroft with slightly parted lips and pleading eyes. 

 

Sherlock ignores such pleas and makes things worse anyway when he says, “You need to keep better control of your wife. She’s out of control.”

 

Mycroft lets out a little surprised breath and his grip slackens on you for the briefest of moments. Surprise at what you’re not sure, either because of Sherlock’s comment in general or because of what he called you. It’s unlikely that he’s processed the fact that you’re now his wife after all. Whatever the case though it’s enough for you to wrench free, slap Sherlock hard across the face and yell, “I hate you! I hate you Sherlock Homes! And I-I hope you get cancer, because then you’d know, you’d know”- you break off, jab a finger in his face and turn around, rushing out of the room. 

 

Mycroft looks in between where you've just vanished and his brother for a moment, before he dashes after you. 

 

You’re hailing another cab by the time he catches up with you, and the pair you tumble inside it without a word to one another. Mycroft directs the cabbie home, whilst you stare hard out of the window, blinking back tears of a frustrated kind of sorrow. You spend the rest of the journey staring out of it, whilst Mycroft looks at you worriedly. 

 

“I'm sorry, but your brother, he-he just pisses me off, he really does,” you say once you finally enter the flat. You’d stayed at Molly and Greg’s flat the previous night, and though it had only been one night, after failing to sleep well and after the bundle of emotions you've been through this morning it’s a relief to be home. 

 

The first thing you do is head towards the bedroom so that you can hang your dress up and preferably stuff it somewhere off to the side of the wardrobe out of sight. You find that you never want to see it again. You stop dead however as soon as you push the door open. The bed’s covered in rose petals. You swallow, your anger clearing slightly as you turn back to Mycroft. 

 

He’s standing behind you, clutching at two glasses and a bottle of champagne with a hopeful look upon his face. Judging by the bottle it’s not the cheap stuff either. “Something to cheer you up?” he attempts. 

 

“Mycroft the money”- you blurt out wearily, raising your free hand to your forehead, before you go across to the wardrobe to sort your dress out. What is it with Holmes’s not doing what you want? 

 

He lets out a bit of a knowing sigh and steps forwards, “F/N, if I'm not mistaken in the fact, which I might be judging by how you’re currently acting, then we just got married”-you smile tiredly in spite of yourself-“And since we decided not to hold a proper reception I thought we could hold our own here.” You wrestle with the hanger and your dress for a moment, before you manage to push both things out of sight. Mycroft watches you with a frown. “I wish you wouldn't hide it,” he says, “I”- 

 

After you close the wardrobe you turn back to him, “I like it,” you indicate the dress, “You know I do, I just…I just can’t bear to see it right now.” Mycroft’s frown only grows. “That was sweet of you though I admit,” you add, nodding to the champagne, before you gesture to the rose petals with your hand. Mycroft’s face brightens. “But are you even supposed to be drinking alcohol, before Thursday?”

 

Mycroft lets out a bit of a sigh. “I'm not supposed to eat or drink anything after six o' clock on Wednesday night, until then I can do whatever I like.” You give him a reproachful look. You’re pretty sure that’s not strictly true. “I bought some cake too, so unless you want me to eat it all by myself, which I would do by the way, frankly it looks delicious…” 

 

“Okay, deal,” you smile, and he has a smirk of his own on his face as he walks past you. “But after Thursday no more cake or champagne for a while. I’ve read that eating lots of protein is good to help recovery after surgery, so I'm going to make sure that this whole flat is stinking of fish.”

 

Mycroft both rolls his eyes and smiles a little at your determination to look after him. “Maybe a little cake wouldn't be of harm though my dear? It does raise ones spirits after all”-

 

 _“Myc”-_ you protest.

 

“All right,” he chuckles, “No more cake for a day or two after Thursday, I promise,” he says, raising the glasses he’s carrying in supplication.

 

“It will be for _more_ than a day or two,” you mutter, watching as he puts the glasses down on the bedside cabinet, opens the champagne with a pop that makes a breath escape you and pours a generous amount into each glass. You can’t help but smile as you sit on the bed, keeping an eye on him as your fingers toy absent-mindedly with one of the rose petals. He passes you one of the glasses. “Wait here Mrs. Holmes, I won’t be a moment,” he informs you. Your lips quirk upward without being able to help it at him calling you that. You sip at the champagne, whilst he leaves the room. The bubbles go to your head and you let out a bit of a _‘Mmm,’_ as you rub your lips together consideringly. You feel better already. 

 

“Is it to your liking?” Mycroft murmurs, nodding to the champagne in your hand when he comes back in carrying two plates full of cake and a little fork to go with each. 

 

The cake, a chocolate one with flakes peeling off it, cherries and a cream filling, looks delicious, and if the crumbs around Mycroft’s mouth are anything to go by then he’s already sampled it. You smile. 

 

“Yes it is,” you breathe, before you can’t resist adding, “What about the cake?”

 

 _“Ah,”_ Mycroft begins, having the decency to look a little embarrassed as he sits down on the bed beside you, “It was a little crumbly, so…”

 

“I'm sure it was,” you say, leaning over so that you can wipe at the crumbs that are around his mouth with your fingers. He turns his head and a second later his lips are upon yours. “Mmm,” you murmur, tasting the cake on him. He twists closer towards you, and your hand goes onto his shoulder, but when there comes a worrying chink of crockery and you feel sure that the plates, cake and all, are about to slide off his lap your hand goes to help steady them. Mycroft’s hand goes to help too, and he breaks out of the kiss embarrassedly. 

 

You smile at one another, before you settle down opposite each other on the bed, picking at your respective pieces of cake with your forks. You both make various appreciative noises as you begin to eat it, before a comfortable silence descends upon you. 

 

 _“Mmm,”_ Mycroft murmurs, and when there comes a clink of the fork against the plate you look up at him and smile when you see that he’s finishing off. His fingers are darting around the plate so that he can pick up every last crumb. You swallow as he sucks each last spoil of cake off his finger. His eyes dart up to you. He smiles at your face. “You know,” he murmurs, pushing his plate aside, “That my brother isn't deliberately trying to upset either of us don’t you? Even though it might seem that way sometimes.” You eye him calculatingly. “He is, oddly enough, like Dr. Watson described earlier today, just being himself”-

 

“I”-

 

“He’s pulling away,” Mycroft leans back from you, “He’s got it into his head, just as you seem to have by the way, that I'm going to die. By not coming to the wedding and by distancing himself from the pair of us it makes him less involved in sharing our pain, and allows him to, quite frankly, continue most happily with his life.” He lets out a breath. “I only wish that I could prove to the both of you that I'm not quite as fallible as the pair of you seem to think.” 

 

“No one thinks you’re fallible,” you scoff lightly, pushing your own plate aside, despite the fact that you haven’t finished and prodding at the duvet with your finger, “But you can’t blame us for being worried. Still though, that’s no excuse for his behaviour, not turning up today was”- 

 

“You don’t understand,” Mycroft begins softly, “He’s acted this way before. With Redbeard.”

 

 _“Who?”_ you look up at him.

 

“Redbeard,” Mycroft says, looking suddenly embarrassed. He waves a hand, “The-The dog Sherlock had as a child.”

 

“Sherlock had a _dog?”_ you question in surprise, “I never knew that.” 

 

“Mmm,” Mycroft murmurs, “He was really very close to the poor thing, attached. The two of them played and did everything together. Then, one day”-he lets out a sigh. His eyes are fixed on the duvet-“As everyone does, Redbeard got sick”-you shiver-“It would be a long process that would eventually kill him. But at first Sherlock acted as if nothing was wrong with his best friend. When he could avoid it no longer and when Redbeard was too sick to play any more, too sick to be the dog Sherlock had always known, he started distancing himself from him. It worked to a point, but it left both boy and dog miserable. Finally”-Mycroft lets out a sigh-“Came the day that Redbeard had to be put down. My little brother had, had all this emotion building up inside him for so long that finally he just exploded from it all. He sobbed and refused to leave his room for days”-

 

“But if he knows that doing the same thing won’t stop him from feeling hurt in the long run then why’s he doing it this time with you?”

 

“Perhaps because he knows no other way,” Mycroft shrugs, looking up at you, “But if you want a further insight into my brother’s psyche then perhaps you should be aware of the fact that when I went to university I am of the strong belief that he thought I’d abandoned him.”

 

You look off to the side and think about it all for a moment. “So,” you struggle, “He thinks that if you died from cancer you’d be abandoning him again?”

 

“That is what I think yes,” Mycroft sighs, “But more than that I believe my brother wants to protect himself for as long as he can”-you open your mouth, but Mycroft raises a finger-“It may be irrational, but then most love is,” he smiles at you. You stare at him for a moment; watching, as his face becomes something serious once more, “Don’t give up on him F/N. I know he made you very angry today, but just because he’s bad-tempered, ill mannered and does not know how to deal with any of this, don’t give up on him. I think it would be good for you, perhaps in a few days time once everything’s settled down a little, to go and talk to him again.”

 

Your brow furrows. You stretch out a hand. “What makes you think that, that would make a difference?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft shrugs a little, whilst a small smile toys about his face, “He is like me, in some ways,” he muses, “And you never gave up on me. So please, I am asking you if you might, through the course of my illness, see him every now and again. Even if he does not reply and you just find yourself talking at him. You are capable of affecting people my dear, even though they might not realize it and you might not might be aware of how much.”

 

He’s looking at you so seriously that it makes you let out a bit of a sigh and look down again. “Okay,” you breathe, “I’ll try again.” You look up at him and Mycroft smiles. Your fingers brush against the top of his hand. He shivers and you think for a moment more, watching your hand, before you look up at him and ask, “So what’s your excuse?” You draw your hand back. 

 

 _“Hmm?”_ Mycroft hums.

 

“When you were first diagnosed and you were trying to kick me out, when I stayed and you still wouldn't let me in, what’s your excuse? If Sherlock has Redbeard as an explanation, what’s your reason?” 

 

“My love for you is all the reason I need,” Mycroft sighs, standing up and coming across to you. He cups your head gently to his stomach. You breathe him in. “I thought you would have known that by now.”

 

“I do,” you murmur, caressing the material of his waistcoat, “I just wanted to hear you say it.”

 

You stand up and fall against each other slowly, wrapping your arms around the other and brushing your heads together, before you pull back into a kiss. You groan and mumble incoherent nonsense into each other’s mouths. Your fingers undo his waistcoat, whilst his hands slide your top upward…

 

*

 

Neither of you get much sleep over the next couple of nights. Wednesday’s the worst. Mycroft and you just lie side by side, staring hopelessly at the ceiling and wondering what the next day will bring. At some point in the night you tangle your hands together and when you wake your body’s pressed tightly into his. 

 

You eat your own breakfast quietly, whilst Mycroft watches, looking rather haughty and hungry. You’d told him that you could eat later, but he’d told you not to be silly. You could tell just by that brief exchange that any talk of feelings is pointless today, so you don’t push it. If he chooses to speak then you respond and if he doesn’t then you stay respectfully silent. 

 

You take a cab to the clinic and then Mycroft, carrying his overnight bag over his shoulder, grasps at your hand and firmly leads you towards the clinic doors. 

 

Just before you go through them though he stops, moves you both aside and turns towards you. “Don’t hang around once I’ve gone in okay? Just go home and do what you need to do”-

 

“I”-

 

“There’s no point F/N,” he says a little fiercely, before, upon seeing your wide-eyed expression he squeezes at your hand and adds, “They’ll call you to say what’s going on. I’ll make sure of it.”

 

You want to protest further and perhaps point out that he might be too out of it later to make sure of such a thing, but you can see that there’s no point, so you just nod. Mycroft looks relieved, before he leads the way inside. 

 

Once he’s announced his arrival there’s a brief flurry of activity, before he’s led away so that he can change into his hospital gown. 

 

You, who had expected more of a wait, before you’d be separated from one another, wonder if things would usually move so swiftly, or if it’s just happening today because the British Government is making things turn.

 

*

 

You see Mycroft again just as he’s about to be wheeled into theatre. 

 

A harried looking bearded consultant comes to get you, on Mycroft’s request no doubt. You’re led down a hallway and suddenly you’re standing by the hospital bed that Mycroft’s being wheeled down upon and he’s sitting up and twisting around the best he can to kiss you on the cheek. “Go home,” he urges you, seeing the tears that are already floating in your eyes just from seeing him this way. You want to wrap him up in a blanket, take him home and protect him forever. You don’t want to leave him to the mercy of this place. 

 

“I love you,” you murmur into his ear, gripping onto his shoulders tightly. You can feel his skin underneath the thin material of his gown and you hate it. Everything about him seems so vulnerable and wrong. 

 

“I love you too Mrs. Holmes,” he breathes. You let out a bit of a watery chuckle as the words tickle against your ear. 

 

You squeeze him one last time, before you pull back and smile at one another. You step away and watch as he gets wheeled out of sight through a set of double-doors. 

 

*

 

It’s silly, but even though Mycroft had told you otherwise you end up staying at the clinic for the next hour. 

 

Once you finally realize that you can’t do anything and force yourself home you attempt to paint, before you quickly give up. You can’t think about which colours, or which lines to exaggerate, all you can think about is Mycroft and what he might be going through at that moment. 

 

Molly, Mycroft’s parents and your mother all phone, but although you talk to them a little about everything that’s going on, you’re anxious about staying on the phone for too long just in case someone from the clinic should ring. 

 

Once you’re left to your own devices you potter about the flat, trying to get a bit of cleaning done, before you dismiss the idea and try to read. You can’t concentrate and you soon give up on that design too. You have a small, and very half-hearted lunch, which consists of a slightly soggy cheese and tomato sandwich and about five crisps, before you head back to the clinic. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s in the park again. But this time he’s not alone. You’re there, with him at last, and you both sit on a checked picnic blanket on top of a grassy hill, whilst the sun washes over you. 

 

The sky’s a blue that’s the same colour as his eyes and completely cloud free. 

 

He listens to you chatter. You seem happy and excited about something, so much so that sometimes your words slur together. But Mycroft doesn’t mind. He’s just happy to hear you this way. It makes every pore of his skin feel alive. He lets out a soft sigh. He thinks that he could stay this way forever.

 

*

 

Back at home again after a futile, restless hour at the clinic where no news was forthcoming you jump a little when the phone finally rings. 

 

You let a beat go by and swallow with nerves, before you pick it up with clumsy fingers. “H-Hello?”

 

“Mrs. Holmes?” a male voice comes. 

 

“Yes, speaking,” you reply, your throat feeling dry, whilst a fluttery feeling swirls about your stomach at being called that. 

 

“Hello, it’s Tom Harvard here. Your husband’s key worker from his multidisciplinary team”-

 

“Hi”-

 

“Hi, I'm pleased to say that the surgery conducted on Mycroft today went promisingly. The tumour was removed without too much difficulty and the surgeon managed to take out a margin of normal tissue around it, just as we’d been hoping.” You let out a breath. “However”- your heart sinks-“There is some concern that there might be some cancer cells still left in the area. We’re going to recommend that he has some radiotherapy treatment once he’s recovered a bit more from the operation.”

 

You let out another breath, “Can I see him?”

 

“He’s a little bit woozy and tired at the moment, so it might be best to leave him for today. But if you popped in tomorrow morning, or whenever you’re free”-you almost laugh at that, you’re _always_ free to see Mycroft-“Then he’d be a lot more awake and appreciative of your visit.”

 

“He’s okay though?” you check. 

 

“Oh yes,” Tom chuckles, “The first thing he said when he came around was your name. Then he said that we should ring and update you at once.”

 

You let out a watery laugh as the image of a blurry-eyed Mycroft waking up and grabbing someone around the wrist to impart such information comes to your mind. You get off the phone after thanking Tom and telling him to express your gratitude to everyone else for doing such a good job for Mycroft. You take a moment just to breathe and try and feel positive about everything. You first ring Mycroft’s parents, before you call your mother and Molly. You decide not to call Sherlock, feeling far too awkward still from what had happened on your wedding day. But everyone else seems encouraged by the news, and, allowing yourself to feel buoyant yourself, you get to work making a proper dinner for yourself. 

 

You eat it in front of the TV, chuckling a little still about the fact that Mycroft had been so keen to make sure that you were up to date. He knows you too well you think. 

 

Once you’re done with dinner and the washing up you flick through some of the channels idly, thinking about how odd it is to be on your own in the flat. Mycroft’s been away with work of course, but its been a while since he’s had to and you find that you've become rather used to his presence. You get up and walk across to the bookshelf, finding yourself pulling out a photo album and taking it back to the settee. It covers a fair amount of the time that Mycroft and you have been together. There’s you both at the birthday party Greg had held for Molly two years ago, Mycroft’s wearing a tight smile as he wraps an arm around your shoulders. There’s Molly dancing with you from that same night, and you can just about make out Mycroft standing and smiling at you in the background. He looks entranced and it makes you run a finger across his face as you smile a smile that’s full of longing yourself. There’s a photo that you’d taken of Mycroft and yourself one night on the way home from a restaurant. The stars had been so bright in the sky, like your own personal display. You hadn’t been living together back then, and you remember how deeply Mycroft had kissed you just before you’d left him and disappeared inside your own flat. There’s Mycroft sleeping adorably one weekend, post you moving in, enjoying a lie-in after returning from a work trip the previous night, his face bathed in sunlight. You hadn’t been able to resist taking it, and looking at it now makes you feel tired yourself. You close the photo-album with a yawn and put it away, before you head to bed. 

 

It feels odd being there without Mycroft, and just before you switch the lamp off and make to snuggle underneath the covers-you’ll sleep on his side tonight-you look at the photo of Mycroft and you that’s kept on the bedside cabinet. In it you've got a big beaming smile on your face and you’re looking up at him, whilst he’s looking at the camera and placing a firm hand upon your waist. “Don’t worry, we’ll be together again soon,” you tell him. 

 

*

 

When you wake that morning you feel keen to get to the clinic to see Mycroft, but the issue with Sherlock, as you dress and make the bed, prickles at you all the same. 

 

In fact it’s like someone-like Mycroft himself in fact-has been whispering into your ear about how very wrong it was for you to not call his brother last night. You feel like you've acted just as selfishly as you’d accused Sherlock of doing, and as you remember your husband’s words about how important it is for you to not give up, and how desperate he’d seemed when he’d spoken such words, you feel like you should really be doing something to make up for your inactive and incorrect behaviour.

 

As you eat your cereal a plan forms, and when you leave the flat you head for Baker Street instead of the clinic. 

 

Once you’re standing in front of the familiar black door however you take a moment just to breathe and summon up your courage, steeling yourself for whatever mood the youngest Holmes brother might be in that day. 

 

You’re still steeling yourself when the door’s suddenly flung open in front of you. 

 

You nearly topple backwards in surprise, but a hand, which goes to your arm and pulls you forwards, steadies you. 

 

You let out a breath just at the same time as Sherlock-wearing his usual coat and scarf-lets go of you. “Thanks,” you mutter, shifting your position a little, before you ask, “Are you going out? I”-

 

“I know,” Sherlock murmurs. You scrunch your face up as you scrutinize him, wondering if he _does_ really know what you’d come there for. “You wanted us to go and see my brother together,” Sherlock says, reading your mind, “And despite everything I'm not actually as cold-hearted as you might think to reject you.”

 

“I know, I'm sorry about what happened before,” you mumble, looking down and feeling even worse for the fact that you hadn’t called him the previous night.

 

Sherlock closes the door behind him and steps closer to you, looking at your face calculatingly. “My brother told you about Redbeard,” he summarizes. 

 

You nod, looking up at him tentatively. 

 

“He should never have done”-

 

“He wanted me to understand”-

 

“I suppose he told you about how he took over Redbeard’s care and walked him and”- Sherlock cuts you off angrily.

 

“No, _actually,_ he only ever talked about your role in things and about how it affected you,” you tell him coolly. 

 

Sherlock eyes you intently. He lets out a bit of a sigh, steps out onto the edge of the pavement and procures a taxi for you both. “Come,” he says as it pulls up. 

 

You follow him inside it, still a little wary. 

 

The journey to the clinic is made in silence, but as soon as you get there Sherlock takes charge, informing everyone who you both are-though some of the people already know you of course-and who you’re there to see. 

 

You’re left in the waiting room for a moment, and you sit down together companionably. 

 

When a nurse comes to fetch you and take you to the room however, although you get up at once Sherlock hesitates. You look around at him. 

 

“You go,” he says, half-looking at you, “I know I'm his brother, but it’s you that he’ll want to see.”

 

Suddenly you understand that this is just Sherlock being scared and pulling away again. “We’re in this together,” you tell him, determined to not make the same mistake as you had before. You reach out a hand towards him.

 

He sends you a bit of a rueful smile, before he takes it and gets up. You give his hand a little squeeze, before you let go. 

 

The nurse, smiling at you both, turns and leads you to the private room that Mycroft’s in. 

 

He’s sitting up in bed wearing a hospital gown, and he looks a little amused when he sees the nurse leading Sherlock and you in. 

 

The nurse nods at you all, before she leaves you to it. 

 

“Two visitors, I am blessed,” Mycroft says. Whilst Sherlock rolls his eyes at his brother’s comment you go towards your husband instantly, bending down to press a quick kiss to his cheek and squeezing at his hand. “I'm fine F/N,” he says, whilst your heart swells with happiness just at the sight of him. You step back and Mycroft’s head turns towards where his brother is standing at the bottom of the bed, looking uncomfortable. “Well Sherlock, don’t just skulk there, draw up a chair for my wife and yourself and sit down.”

 

Sherlock, looking relieved to have something to do, does just that.

 

Mycroft and you exchange a knowing smile and your husband kisses at your hand lovingly. “Thank you,” he murmurs, lifting his head up and lowering your hand. 

 

You know that he means for not giving up on Sherlock and you nod. 

 

*

 

The following week passes by slowly. Mycroft-even though he’s discharged-spends most of it at the clinic, doing radiotherapy treatment, which makes his skin red and itchy, learning to walk again, and doing other scans and tests, which will determine whether or not the pair of you can start to put the cancer behind you at last. His face always brightens whenever you’re with him though, and he quietens you with a fervent kiss when you joke that his umbrella’s getting rather jealous of his fancy new wooden crutch. 

 

*

 

Finally, at the beginning of the subsequent week, Mycroft and you get called into the clinic to get the test results. 

 

“Now, as much as I want to be positive don’t make assumptions about what we’re going to hear, all right?” Mycroft warns, squeezing at your hand as you sit close together in the back of the cab. “Even if it’s good news, remember what I said? I’ll have to do regular tests and have check-ups. It doesn’t necessarily mean”- 

 

“I know,” you swallow and nod, but you can’t help but have a vision of Tom-who you’d met properly the previous week-telling you both that the cancer’s gone. You half-close your eyes as you hope for such a thing. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft says, squeezing at your hand to get you out of the daydream he can tell you’re having. Once more he doesn’t want you to make predictions about what’s going to happen in the future.

 

You open your eyes properly and nod. 

 

*

 

Tom Harvard is waiting for you both inside the reception area of the clinic. His dark hair seems to have turned greyer at the edges since you’d last seen him, but his jaw is covered with even more stubble as if he’s trying to make up for it. His face clears a little when he sees you both and he shakes your hands quickly, before he leads you back to his office. 

 

Mycroft and you walk side-by-side, your hands still knotted tightly together, before you let go of each other as you enter a room that’s surrounded with medical books on the shelves, and which has a brown desk that’s half messy and half tidy. A dying pot plant is kept on the windowsill and the air smells stale and fake. You swallow. The happy image of celebration you’d had in the back of the cab pops in your mind, bursting like the last balloon at a children’s party. 

 

Tom gestures for you both to sit in front of the desk and Mycroft and you take up the light green plastic chairs uncomfortably, whilst the key worker settles behind his desk. Mycroft and you share one last glance with each other, before Mycroft covers your hand with his again, pressing it to the arm of your chair. Your throat feels dry, and you can hardly stand it as you both look back to Tom. 

 

You hold your breath as he says, “Right, I'm going to get straight to the point. Mycroft, you’re in complete remission”-

 

You let out a choked gasp, your hand flexing up against your husband’s. Mycroft glances at you with an open mouth, before he looks back at Tom, “I-does this mean the cancer-”

 

“As far as we can tell it’s gone yes,” Tom says, looking serious but optimistic as he stares at you both, “Of course you’ll still have to have tests, and there's a high chance”-

 

But suddenly you don’t care what else Tom’s got to say. You let out a sound that’s somewhere between a laugh and a cry, before you turn and throw yourself into Mycroft’s arms. 

 

Your husband makes a sound at the force of you, before he laughs a little and buries his head into your shoulder. He leaves a kiss upon it, before he murmurs a soft, “There, see? I told you I wasn't fallible.”

 

You let out a watery laugh and hold him even tighter. 

 

Frantic phone calls are made to all your family and friends as soon as you leave the clinic. 

 

Everything is glorious.


	2. Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft gets some terrible news...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, thank you very much for your support! :D 
> 
> I should warn you though that this chapter's a bit sad, so be prepared.

**Five Months Later-September**

 

Mycroft’s in the park again in his white shirt and trousers. His shirtsleeves are rolled up. This time he’s alone and there’s a dark sky overhead. It’s dusk. He can feel the rain hanging in pockets in the sky, like a terrifying volcano that’s about to erupt. He feels like he should be trying to seek shelter, so he heads towards the trees. Maybe if he can get through them he’ll find a safer place to be. His bare feet slip against the grass, which is heavy with moisture and whose blades seem to turn into vines as they curl around his ankles, pushing him back. He moves quickly. His heart jumps and he feels afraid. Something’s coming. He’s reluctant to stop, but when he makes it to the brook his mouth is so dry that he feels thirsty. He falters, before he begins to move across the brook automatically. When he’s left with one foot plunged into the water and one out on the other side on the grass he stops again. The water feels pleasantly cool around his foot, which up until that point had felt sweaty and hot. He swallows and looks towards the trees. His throat is parched, dry. He swallows and turns away. He crouches down to the water and cups some of it up to his mouth with his hands, attempting to drink it, only to find that the water’s already managed to escape him by trickling through. He’s just left with a stain of it against his palms. He scowls and tries again. But the same thing happens. His hands can benefit from the cool water, but his mouth can’t. Finally, and all too much aware that his time is running out, he tries again. It’s too late. A burst of light flashes, before his eyes, blinding him. He lets out a gasp, before he nearly loses his balance. Thankfully he regains it at the last moment. He only gets the chance to let out a couple of breaths however, before there comes a crash of thunder. 

 

Mycroft wakes with a start, his eardrums still reverberating with the sound of thunder from his dream. There’s a pounding pain in his chest, his eyes are wide and he’s sweat covered. It takes only a moment for him to begin to cough violently, and only a moment after that, as he breathes hard, for him to realize that he’s sitting bolt upright in bed. He’s switched the bedside lamp on automatically. 

 

“Mycroft?” you murmur, your voice rough from sleep. You blink hard to get yourself awake. _“What?”-_

 

He swats a hand at you. Once his cough dies down he swallows a couple of times and tries to get his breath back. Instinctively he looks around. You’re half-sitting up, looking at him concernedly. Your hand comes to rest upon his arm. 

 

He doesn’t want to do this. “It’s nothing,” he attempts, “I”-

 

“You’re hurting again aren't you?” you ask, adjusting your position and sitting up straighter. Your voice sounds oddly calm and matter-of-fact, as if you’re having an out of body experience. Mycroft swallows and nods, looking down at the duvet rather than at you. “Where?” you ask, again with that strange calmness.

 

“In my chest mostly,” Mycroft croaks, “I'm achy all over, but it could be nothing. I’ve got my check-up in two weeks”-

 

“No,” you cut him off, and you sound firmer and more awake now, “I'm not going to let you make the same mistakes. If you’re in pain, especially if it’s in your chest, then you need to make an appointment straight away”-

 

“It’s the middle”-

 

“Tomorrow,” you insist, your hand going to cover his, “First thing. I don’t care what you've got going on in work”-

 

“Not even if it’s war?” Mycroft questions a little teasingly. He lies down on his back. Oddly enough he feels better from your presence already. 

 

“Not even that,” you say, turning back to him, “You’re more important than any war Mycroft Holmes,” you add, snuggling back beside him. Your head pushes against his shoulder for a moment, before you lift it up. “You’re covered in sweat,” you tell him concernedly, looking back at him.

 

“Mm, I had a bit of a strange dream, before I woke,” Mycroft mumbles. 

 

“Do you want to”- you begin, looking at him worriedly, but you break off when he shakes his head.

 

“No,” he mutters. Though when he can see that you’re finding it more difficult to be calm he murmurs, “I love you Mrs. Holmes,” in an attempt to soothe you. 

 

“I know, I love you too,” you breathe, trying to be level-headed about it all even though what with your heart racing it’s getting harder and harder to be so. 

 

“If”- Mycroft says suddenly, and you can tell from his slightly high-pitched tone that his heart is racing too. 

 

“If it’s back then we’ll deal with it once we know, and if it’s not then we’ll have cake and champagne again,” you say, stroking at his chest momentarily, as you try to comfort him as much as he’d just comforted you. 

 

“I think we should have cake and champagne again anyway,” Mycroft sighs, stroking absent-mindedly at your hair. 

 

“Mmm,” you reply, tucking your head against his shoulder. 

 

Despite both of your attempts to be optimistic and to push it all aside though, it’s an uncomfortable night.

 

*

 

Mycroft’s up before you the next morning. You’d finally fallen asleep close to dawn and sunk into a pit of nothingness. When you finally awake your head feels heavy and groggy, but you’re instantly alarmed at the realization that the other side of the bed is empty. You sit up as quickly as you can. You feel relieved when you spot Mycroft hovering close by, watching you uncertainly. 

 

“Ah, I wasn't sure if I should wake you,” he murmurs, looking tiredly pleased that you've saved him such a decision. 

 

“Your pain?” you question a little thickly, swiping the sleep out of your eyes. 

 

“Still there,” Mycroft swallows, “I’ll ring the clinic this morning and try and book an appointment”-

 

“You won’t try, you _will,”_ you assure him, “Use your status if you have to.” 

 

Mycroft looks a little surprised by your suggestion, but nods nonetheless. “I’ll see you later,” he murmurs. 

 

You nod and allow him to come over and kiss you on your cheek, “But I expect a phone call from you before that, and if you want me to come with you”-

 

“It’ll just be tests”- Mycroft says, darting forwards to place another kiss on your cheek. 

 

“A phone call then, even if it is to say it was just tests,” you instruct. 

 

“A phone call, I promise,” he murmurs, knowing that he’ll be sure to get it in the neck if he doesn’t. 

 

You nod at him severely and he turns to leave for work a moment later, picking up his briefcase and umbrella on the way out. 

 

*

 

You’re attempting to paint when the phone rings. It’s odd, although you've gone back to painting and your artwork a bit more since Mycroft was declared cancer-free you've been finding it a little more difficult to properly focus and enjoy it. It feels more like work. 

 

“Your phone call, as promised,” your husband declares as soon as he picks up. You roll your eyes a little at how proud he sounds of himself. 

 

 _“And?”_ you question urgently. 

 

“It was just tests F/N,” Mycroft assures you, _“But…”_ he trails off, as if he hasn’t yet decided whether to tell you.

 

 _“But?”_ your breath hitches. 

 

“There did seem to be a little concern,” Mycroft admits. 

 

You swallow. “Right, well,” you let out a breath and shift your position, squaring your shoulders, “It’s like I said last night, we’ll deal with it if we have to.”

 

There comes a prominent pause from Mycroft’s side and you feel afraid. But that’s nothing to how you feel when he finally speaks. 

 

“F/N,” he murmurs, and you've never heard him say your name so apprehensively before, “I don’t want to scare you, but I’ve got a feeling that we _will_ have to deal with this.”

 

You let out a breath. You want to ignore the fact that he’s almost always right and try and not worry about all this until you have to. “Okay, well that’s”-

 

“F/N?” Mycroft interrupts. “I’ve got to go, but I’ll come home earlier tonight, all right?”

 

You swallow. “Okay, love you.”

 

“Yes, me too,” Mycroft says a little embarrassedly with a clearing of his throat, which tells you that someone-probably Anthea-is near by and he’s too shy, as you know by now, to make such a declaration down the phone. 

 

You disconnect the call, thinking hard. 

 

*

 

Mycroft’s quiet that night. You both are. You go back to the routine you’d established when Mycroft had first been diagnosed: sitting close together on the settee and watching rubbish on TV. You've got your head on his chest and his arm around you. On the odd occasion one of you will speak, usually to remark on something that’s happening in the programme or to decide what you want to watch next. Intermittently Mycroft will kiss the top of your hair, but other than that the pair of you are silent and still.

 

*

 

It’s three days later and a properly blustery autumn day. You’re in the middle of mixing paint in order to get a burnt umber colour when the phone rings. You frown, a little reluctant to leave your paint when you’re so close to getting the colour right. You’re worried if you leave it now that when you return you won’t be able to. Still, you place the small plastic container of paint aside and wipe your hands on your paint-splattered apron, before you head towards the phone in the living room. You fully expect it to be Molly. She’d hinted that she might ring or pop around after you’d confided in her that Mycroft had, had to have more tests, this time unscheduled ones. 

 

“F/N,” a voice says, and your heart jolts in a sudden panic because it’s not Molly, but Mycroft. 

 

“Yes?” you murmur, sensing that something’s wrong. 

 

“The clinic called. They want to see me straight away. I think it’s a good idea for you to come with me this time, so I'm on my way to pick you up.” His speech is clear and coherent, even though he talks quickly, but his whole tone is serious and troubled. 

 

“R-Right,” you initially respond. You try and think sensibly. “How far away are you?”

 

“I’d currently be five if there wasn't any traffic”- Mycroft grumbles. 

 

“Breathe love,” you remind him. 

 

He clears his throat. “Yes, well, I'm about ten, no nine minutes away.” You roll your eyes and don’t ask how he’d managed to deduce that. “Why?” he questions suddenly, obviously concerned that something might be wrong at your end. 

 

“Nothing to worry about,” you soothe, “I just need to tidy myself up a bit. I’ve been painting.”

 

“Oh,” Mycroft murmurs, and he sounds suddenly far away. 

 

“Myc?” 

 

 _“Hmm?”_ he questions, coming back to you.

 

“Was there anything else?” you ask, “Because if there wasn't then I should probably go and”-

 

“Oh, oh right,” he clears his throat, “Sorry, it just occurred to me that you haven’t been painting much recently”-you swallow-“I’ll see you in a bit then.”

 

“Probably in eight and a half minutes,” you remind him, feeling suddenly worried about how thoughtful he seems, not to mention slightly awkward about the way that he’d just scrutinized you. 

 

He chuckles, but rather than feeling reassured by the sound you find that the noise grates on you. “Seven and a half actually.”

 

“Is that all? In that case I better go,” you respond, hanging up. 

 

You abandon ever finding the burnt umber colour and wash out the start you've made only a little regretfully. Your mind is on Mycroft all the while and on the apprehension you feel about going into the clinic. Once the paint and brushes are taken care of you fling the apron off and hurriedly go and get changed. You've just restored your hair to a loose ponytail when you hear the honk of a car horn. You swallow, grab your handbag and hurry out. 

 

Mycroft gets out of the back of the black car and allows you to get in, before he slides in after you. 

 

You exchange a look. He takes in your rumpled hair and the lack of care that you've obviously chosen your outfit with-a pair of dark jeans, white top with faded logo and black cardigan-as well as your paint-chipped nails. You take in his slightly rumpled light blue shirt and his oddly lopsided navy tie. You move to straighten it, but after doing so before you can withdraw your hand back he takes it securely between his. You send him a cautious look and he nods. You can tell that he’s worried, and he knows that you know. 

 

Your hands are linked for the rest of the way, and when you get to the clinic they’re only momentarily separated as you both get out, before Mycroft takes yours again to lead you up to the clinic’s doors.

 

“Mycroft Holmes,” he tells the brown haired, glasses wearing receptionist, “Here to see Tom Harvard.”

 

“One moment please,” she says, before she pushes a button on the handset of her phone. She places the receiver to her ear. There’s lots of nodding and, ‘um yeah’s.’

 

Mycroft and you exchange a swift look. You can tell that just like you he’s barely breathing. He lets out a bit of a cough that sends a shudder through you, before he squeezes at your hand. 

 

Once the receptionist comes off the phone with a, ‘Yes, Mycroft Holmes, that’s’ right,’ she directs you both to the blue plastic chairs that are off to the side of the entranceway and says, “He won’t be a moment.”

 

Mycroft and you spend a minute sitting there side by side uncomfortably with fidgety hands, before a furrow-browed Tom Harvard comes through a door from the inner clinic. 

 

His face clears a little when he sees you both and he shakes both of your hands quickly, before he leads you towards his office. 

 

Mycroft walks ahead of you, and then you’re both entering the office where you’d been told that Mycroft was in complete remission. A little shiver runs through you as you remember how you’d hoped so much for good news that day, but the room with its stale air had intimidated you, as had the fact that you were moments away from getting either good or bad news. Just like then you feel nervous and uncertain, but there’s more a sense of determination inside you too, especially because you can tell that Mycroft’s expecting the worst. You want to be strong for him. You want to be the best, supportive wife that you can. 

 

Tom gestures for you both to sit in front of the desk and Mycroft and you do so. The key worker settles behind it. 

 

“Right,” Tom says heavily once you’re still and unmoving. A tight knot secures itself inside your stomach; “I’ll get straight to the point”-Mycroft takes your hand and squeezes it-“The cancer’s returned.”

 

Mycroft and you let out simultaneous breaths. Your head goes dizzy and your vision fades. So much for being strong, you think stupidly. Mycroft pumps at your hand, bringing you back to life. You swallow and lean back a little when you come to realize that you've moved forwards. You let out another breath and look at your husband. He’s looking worriedly at you. 

 

“Is it still in the same area?” Mycroft asks, looking back at Tom. 

 

Tom swallows and shuffles some papers on his desk. “It is, but its also spread to your lungs.”

 

Another breath escapes you. 

 

“Treatment?” Mycroft asks, for perhaps if he keeps Tom talking then he can delay everything from crashing down on your lives for a little bit longer. 

 

“We’d like to start you on a course of chemotherapy treatment as soon as possible”-

 

“Will I be receiving that here? At the clinic?” Mycroft asks. 

 

“Yes,” Tom confirms. 

 

“And”- Mycroft half-glances at you, before he looks back at Tom, “As far as life expectancy is concerned?”

 

You swallow. You can hear your heart in your eardrums. Your vision nearly swoops into black-

 

“The chemotherapy, I'm afraid, can only do so much. At most it might prolong your life by a year, but it will not ultimately”-

 

You let out a choked gasp. _‘A year,’_ is that all? 

 

Mycroft squeezes at your fingers. “I see,” he says.

 

He continues to ask question after question, even though he probably knows the answers to some of them, but even though you know that he’s doing it for your benefit you find that you start to zone out of everything. You don’t know what to think. All you know is that you’d been hoping that this moment wouldn't come and now it has, and just like before everything is moving too quickly for you to process. 

 

Once you leave the clinic-it feels like an age but in reality it’s only a quarter-of-an-hour later-Mycroft stops, turns and looks at you. “I’ll tell Mummy and Father,” he says, “But perhaps you could tell Sherlock? I could drop you off at Baker Street on my way back to work if you”-

 

“You’re going back to work?” you splutter, too used to his behaviour around Sherlock now to even be surprised by that particular aspect. 

 

Mycroft just looks at you as if to say, _‘What am I supposed to do?’_

 

You sigh. He’s just been told that his life has been cut short. Of _course_ he’s going back to work. He doesn’t want to deal with what he’s just been told, and more than that he doesn’t want to be around _you_ , whilst you deal with it. “Okay,” you breathe, wondering how one tells someone their brother’s got a terminal illness. 

 

Mycroft looks relieved. He keeps a silent sort of strength up all the way to Baker Street, so you don’t see how, as soon as you leave both him and the cab, his face turns grave and he feels as if something is slumping inside him. Don’t see how, as soon as he gets to work, he shuts himself inside his office and pulls the blinds down. You don't hear the hidden agony in his tone as he opts to tell his parents via phone how he doesn’t have much time left in this world. You don't see how tears of both anger and fear stream down his face after the call, _or_ how he buries his head inside his folded arms and slaps his hand against the desk in frustration. Don't see how, when he finally lifts his head up, after all tears have been expelled, he lets out a breath and rights his mind once more. He will be sensible about this. He will not yield to silly emotion. 

 

*

 

You draw the knocker down on the black door of 221B. 

 

To your surprise Sherlock’s the one who opens it, but you only catch a glimpse of each other, before the door slams shut in your face again. 

 

 _“Sherlock!”_ you cry, recognizing that he already knows just from having caught that one glimpse of you. You’re curious as to what’s written on your body that screams, _‘my husband has a terminal illness.’_

 

Mrs. Hudson opens the door to you. “Oh F/N dear”- she says. 

 

“Sorry Mrs. Hudson,” you interrupt, “I’ll talk later, but for now I’ve got to go and see Sherlock.” With that you move her aside with a firm gentleness, before you race upstairs. _“Sherlock,”_ you breathe, as you come to a stop in the entranceway of the sitting room and see that he’s in his armchair, idly fingering at his violin. 

 

“I'm busy, as you can see,” he says, his head jerking importantly down towards the violin, “So, if you don’t mind,” he breaks off. 

 

You sigh and go across to sit in John’s chair. You pull your knees up to your chest. “You don’t have to talk,” you tell him, “But I'm staying, at least for a little while.”

 

“Mycroft?”-

 

 _“Mycroft,”_ you announce, “As you no doubt suspect, has gone to work”-

 

“Idiot,” Sherlock mutters, looking down as his hand gently sweeps a curve around the violin’s strings. 

 

“Yes, just like you,” you say patiently, “At least I know that you’re still brothers.” 

 

His eyes dart up to you and the lightest trace of a smile can be found on his face, before he looks down again. 

 

“How could you tell about Mycroft’s diagnosis?” you ask, feeling suddenly brave. 

 

“Because of your eyes,” Sherlock replies, looking more serious as he glances back down at the violin, “They looked exactly like the vet’s eyes when Redbeard had to be put down.”

 

 _“Oh,"_ you breathe, not liking the sound of that at all. For a long moment neither of you say anything. 

 

Sherlock plucks a little at the violin and you close your eyes, your mouth tight, whilst you try to suppress your tears as the heaviness of the fact that you suddenly find yourself living in a reality you don’t want to bears itself down upon you. You should be getting up, ringing your mother, starting to put some plan, which you haven’t thought of yet into action, but you find that you don’t have the energy to. You’re just stuck in this chair, unable to do anything. 

 

“You know that Mycroft will probably do one of two things now don’t you?” Sherlock murmurs. You open your eyes and blink a little, before you fix your attention upon him again. “He’ll either try and bury his head in the sand about it, or he’ll treat it all in an exceptionally business-like manner.”

 

“Well, he was very strong about it last time, to the point of stupidity”- you begin. 

 

“This is different,” Sherlock says, and his voice sounds suddenly loud in the stillness of the sitting room. 

 

“I know,” you swallow. This _is_ different. 

 

Sherlock sends you a bit of a calculating look, before he goes back to his violin. 

 

You don’t know how long you just sit there, alternating between scrunching your eyes shut and watching him, but suddenly there’s the sound of a key being inserted into a lock and noise on the stairs. 

 

“F/N,” John says, coming into the room as he lets out a bit of a breath. 

 

Hey,” you murmur, sliding forwards so that you can clamber off the armchair and turn to face him. 

 

He studies you quickly, “Is everything”-

 

“Yeah,” you force out with averted eyes, not having the heart to tell him what he’ll know soon enough.

 

Sherlock has other ideas. “Mycroft has been diagnosed with a terminal illness John,” he says in a clipped voice. You sigh inwardly, before you close your eyes. 

 

“Oh God,” John breathes, coming to hug you. You open your eyes as his strong arms wrap themselves around you. “F/N, I”- he says, pulling back from you.

 

“It’s fine,” you lie as his hands come to settle upon your shoulders. He looks at you knowingly with far too much understanding in his eyes. “We’ll just have to deal with it and take each day”-

 

“F/N has been trying to levitate the issue and stop it from sinking into her mind all afternoon John,” Sherlock begins. You half-turn away from John so that you can look at the consulting detective. “She’s been using me as an excuse to stay here when in actual fact she’s just trying to avoid going back to an empty flat and having to face up to it all. She’s scared of seeing Mycroft and learning of how he’s going to react to all this once he gets back from work.”

 

Your lips part. You feel shaky and hurt by his matter-of-fact analysis, even if it is correct. “Too right I'm scared”- you begin to say, but you break off when John places a soothing hand upon your shoulder. 

 

“F/N can stay here as long as she likes,” the doctor says, “She shouldn't be alone right now. Mycroft was wrong to go back to work.” He lets out a breath. “Anyway, what about you Sherlock?” he asks, “Have you hugged F/N today or tried to comfort her in any way since she got here? Have you even offered her a cup of tea?”

 

“She knows where the kettle is,” Sherlock says, staring obstinately at his violin, “And you might have forgotten, but I'm the one who’s related to Mycroft through blood, so if anyone should be getting sympathy then it’s me.” 

 

John opens his mouth but you tap him on the arm. “It’s all right,” you say, “Thank you for your hospitality, but I can see when I'm not wanted. I’ll go.” John opens and closes his mouth a few times. You shoot him a bit of a tight smile, before you leave. You can hear him rounding on Sherlock as you walk downstairs. 

 

You spend much of the rest of the afternoon with Mrs. Hudson, who unlike Sherlock, proves to be much better company. 

 

The pair of you nibble on biscuits, whilst you watch Jeremy Kyle repeats and talk a little about everything that’s going on. 

 

“Everything will change for you now dear,” Mrs. Hudson says, “But what I said before still stands. You can come around here any time you like, and if you need me to go over to yours to do any cleaning or anything, I don’t know how much use I’ll be with my hip, but I seem to spend a lot of my time cleaning up after those boys, so”-

 

Someone clears their throat from behind you, and when you look it’s to see a serious looking Sherlock and a tense looking John standing there. 

 

Sherlock steps forwards, fidgeting with his hands a little. “John forced me to come down here and say sorry, so sorry,” he announces, jerking his head forwards. 

 

“Not like that,” John says, whilst Mrs. Hudson cries, “Oh Sherlock, _that’s_ not the way to apologize!” 

 

“It’s fine,” you murmur, turning your head back towards the TV. 

 

“No it isn't,” Sherlock says, and you can tell by his slightly heavier tone that he genuinely means it. You turn your head back to him. He swallows a little and steps forwards, looking more determined. “Would you come out for a little while with me?” he asks. 

 

Your eyes automatically go to the clock. It’s a little after four. Unless Mycroft’s _really_ feeling worried about you then he should definitely still be at work. You swallow, your eyes going back to Sherlock. You nod and make to follow him. 

 

“Where are we going?” you ask him as you both step out onto the puddle strewn pavement. 

 

“Tower Bridge,” Sherlock says, looking back at you as you close the door behind you. 

 

You raise your eyebrows at him questioningly, but he opts to hail down a passing cab rather than look at you. 

 

He doesn’t speak again until you've left the cab and you’re standing on Tower Bridge, looking out onto the Thames. 

 

“It’s so vast isn't it?” he says. You look at him. His gloved hands are clenched upon the railing, resting there, whilst his hair and scarf flutter in the light breeze. You pull your cardigan tighter around yourself and nod, folding your arms. “That’s how,” he murmurs, glancing at you, “I’ve sort of felt about my brother my whole life.” Your brow furrows. “Oh, I'm not talking about his fluctuating weight. Not that he’ll have to worry about that for much longer. The cancer will deal with that”-

 

 _“Sherlock!”_ you scold, feeling both horrified and incredulous that he’s said such a thing, though you suppose by now that you should really know better. 

 

He smiles ruefully at you, before he looks back out onto the Thames, “I'm talking about how he always manages to be there, whether I want him to be or not.” You smile faintly. “Always offering his opinion. Always threatening me with his own or Mummy’s unhappiness in the hope that it might change my ways. I just _can’t”-_ he runs a hand back through his hair and you shift closer to him, chewing on your lip. You realize even more in that moment that Sherlock’s life will be just as changed as yours when Mycroft dies, if not even more so. Sherlock’s been in Mycroft’s life far longer than you have after all. He looks at you. “The reason I obeyed John when he wanted me to apologize to you, rather than just ignoring him like I usually would”- you snort-“Was, because, as much as I detested what was going on in your head I could understand it. In fact I could relate to it because that’s what was going on in mine.” You swallow. “When I realized that, I realized that as much as this time reminds me of Redbeard it’s different too. No one understood what I was going through then, but now you do.” You swallow. He looks away from you and lets out a long sigh, which stretches right across the Thames, hanging there like mist. “But as much”- he looks back to you-“As much as we might want to pretend that it’s different in other ways it isn't. It’s still going to end the same way. Mycroft’s going to do chemotherapy, he’s going to go through hell because of it”-his voice nearly breaks- “Then at some point he’s going to die and we’re both going to be left alone.”

 

You swallow. “So what are you saying? You don’t want this to be another Redbeard? Or that you do because then you could avoid it until you really have to?”-

 

Sherlock looks away, before he glances back at you. “Caring isn't an advantage, my brother has always been right about that,” he breathes. Something sinks inside your heart. “But for the people I already care about, or for those who have naturally come into my sphere”- he breaks off and shrugs as if to say, _‘What am I supposed to do?’_

 

The gesture reminds you so much of Mycroft earlier that you swallow. “What _are_ you going to do?” you ask. 

 

“I'm going back to Baker Street. You’re going to go home, and then, like you said, we will take each day as it comes and we shall see…” he gives you another half-smile. You watch as he turns and walks away, his coat billowing in the breeze behind him. For a moment you feel hopeful. You get the feeling that Sherlock might be more supportive towards both Mycroft and you this time. 

 

You fully intend to go home, just as Sherlock had suggested, but once he’s out of sight and you’re just spending a few moments staring at the Thames you let out a sigh, realizing that there’s something you need to do. You get out your phone and phone your mother. 

 

“F/N, hey sweetie”- she says as soon as she picks up and you've said hello.

 

 _“Mum,”_ you interrupt, for you suddenly find that you can’t bear hearing any more of her voice without telling her.

 

“F/N? F/N what is it?” she asks at once, being able to tell from the tone you’d used that you’re upset. 

 

You swipe a little at the tears that have fallen without you being able to help them, before you attempt to tug your cardigan tighter around you with your free hand. “I-It’s M-Mycroft, Mum”-

 

“Oh dear”-

 

“Y-Yeah, we went into the clinic today, a-and they told us that the cancer’s back”-

 

“Right I'm coming”-

 

“No Mum,” you interrupt her as firmly as you can. You hear her let out a little breath. “H-He’s going to do chemo, b-but they said that because it’s in the lungs h-he’s going to”- you break off. You can’t even bear to say the word _‘die.’_ You swallow a couple of times. You feel sick and helpless. 

 

“F/N, I”- Mum begins, sounding breathless, and you can tell that she doesn’t have a clue what to say. 

 

“I-I don’t want him to die Mum,” you finally confess, putting your free hand close to your mouth in an attempt to muffle the sobs, which you can feel building up inside of you. A crowd of people moves obliviously around you. 

 

“Of course you don’t,” Mum says, and you let out a sound that’s somewhere between a choked laugh and sob. “Honey I want-I want to be there for you”-

 

You shake your head, even though she can’t see you. “No Mum,” you tell her again, “There’s no need. It’s not like you can do anything more than…” you trail off, choosing not to add the words, ‘I can.’ “Besides,” you go on, getting yourself under better control, “Mycroft probably just wants a normal routine and”-

 

_“F/N”-_

 

“I-I’ve got to go Mum,” you tell her, even though you don’t, “But I’ll phone you soon okay? I just need a moment to think about all this and take it in.” You hang up, before she can say another word. You shove your phone into your pocket and go home. 

 

*

 

When you get back to the flat it’s to find that Mycroft’s there, sitting on the settee in the now rather rumpled clothes that he’s been wearing all day and eating Chinese food off a tray. He peers around when you enter and studies you, no doubt for signs of tears. But aside from when you’d been threatening to break down on the phone to your mother you've done little crying. You mostly just feel cold and tired from it all. You exchange a weary smile with him, before you go and help yourself to what’s left of the Chinese. 

 

“You told your mother?” Mycroft asks. 

 

“Yes,” you nod, scooping the leftover Chinese into a bowl, before you turn around to him, “How did your parents take it?”

 

“Oh,” he breathes, waving a hand, “You know.” You find that as you stare at him-what with having just experienced telling your own mother-you do. “Mummy got upset again, as one would expect, and Father was clearly trying to comfort her, but I could tell when he spoke that”- he breaks off, looking pained. You go across and give his knee a quick comforting squeeze, before you sit down beside him. Mycroft swallows. “Anyway, I-I'm sorry that we’re not eating anything more substantial tonight. I didn't feel much like cooking. I considered getting us some cake and champagne, but…”

 

“This is fine,” you nudge him, trying to get him to cheer up a bit despite everything. 

 

“Mmm,” he says, but he still sounds morose. You swallow and try to think of something that you can say, which might make him feel better. Your mind’s blank. He shifts back, pushes his half-eaten bowl of food aside and murmurs, “You took Sherlock to Tower Bridge”-you look at him-“I spotted you both on CCTV.”

 

“Oh,” you say with your mouth still half-full. You finish swallowing. “Um yeah, he took me there actually. I was a little surprised.”

 

Mycroft smiles a little ruefully. “You do affect people,” he says, and you note that he doesn’t sound entirely happy about the fact.

 

Deciding it’s best to not avoid the main issue any longer you ask, “So, what are your thoughts on what’s happened today?”

 

Mycroft keeps his eyes away from you. He shifts his tray to the floor and leans back into the settee with a heavy sigh. His hands fidget on his lap. “Well,” he begins, “A lot of things will have to be put into order. I’ve started drawing up a list, but”- and as he breaks off you can’t know that he’d only begun to do such a thing when he hadn’t been able to get his mother’s haunting wails out of his head and when he hadn’t been able to concentrate on any work any longer.

 

You do know however that he’s not really getting what you’re trying to ask across, so you put your free hand on top of his. He looks at you. “No, I mean, how do you _feel?”_

 

Mycroft swallows and pulls his hands away from yours. You let out a sigh and pat at his knee briefly, before you withdraw your hand. “Honestly?” he murmurs, “You really want to know how I feel?” You nod. He leans forwards and buries his head in his hands, before he runs his hands back through his hair. You shift and put your bowl down upon the floor, even though you’re far from finished. “I feel like the most sensible thing would be if you were to move out,” he says. You swallow even though you can’t say that you’re entirely surprised. “O-Of course I don’t want that,” he adds, looking up at you, “I just think, well, that because I feel the way I do about you I should probably be enforcing such a thing, for your own good if nothing else”-

 

“Me moving out?”

 

Mycroft nods. “That, a divorce,” he suggests, getting more into it. 

 

You let out a breath. “I thought that the whole point of us getting married in the first place was to satisfy you and make you certain that there would be no arguments after-after your death.” You look at your knees and smooth out the creases of your jeans with your hands. Mycroft looks at you. You finally do the same to him. “So-so won’t that be all for nothing if we get divorced now?”

 

“I know that’s what we said before,” he agrees, looking away from you, “You’d still be looked after in my will, but I-well, after today”-

 

“Now that it’s real you’re backing out,” you conclude, sounding both firm and disappointed. 

 

Mycroft lets out a sigh. “Yes, I suppose you could put it that way,” he concurs, before he looks at you desperately. “I-now that we know, for sure where this is going to end”-you raise a trembling hand to your mouth, feeling sick-“What’s the point, really, in you staying here?”-

 

“The point,” you begin, lowering your hand, “Is that I love you and you love me. The point is that we've gotten this far together and I am not going to walk away from you now. If you dare hand me any divorce papers then I’ll refuse to sign them.”

 

“I thought you’d say that,” Mycroft says, huffing out a breath, “But F/N,” he adds, turning towards you more and covering both of your hands with his. “Why stay here when you-when you know now that there can’t be any future for us, not in the long-term?” 

 

“I-I’ve told you,” you say, pulling away from him, “I love you. I’ll take whatever we have.”

 

“I wish you’d be sensible”-

 

“I wish _you_ would,” you blurt out, your voice overriding his, “I love you, and I'm staying, and no, it’s not because I'm stubborn or because I don’t want to prove your mother right, though of course both of those things apply”- Mycroft lets out a bit of a hollow laugh and it’s your turn to cup his hands-“It’s because I made a promise, before we got married and when we did. In ‘sickness and in health’”-Mycroft lets out a little breath-“I intend to keep it.” You pull away from him and wave a hand. “You’re really telling me,” you start, “That if our situations were reversed you wouldn't stay with me? That you’d just go because I asked you to?”-

 

“Of course I wouldn't,” Mycroft gets out, “I’d never leave you.” 

 

“Then please,” you tell him, “Please don’t ask me to leave you any more. I can’t bear having that same conversation over and over again. I'm staying.”

 

Mycroft swallows. He nods. “All right,” he says, “All right, I won’t tell you again.”

 

“Good,” you nod, picking up your dinner and shoving a forkful of it into your mouth more happily. 

 

“I'm concerned about you though,” Mycroft begins, turning towards you. You make a sound of irritation in between chewing your mouthful. He looks at you warily, before he seems to summon up enough courage to say, “What I said earlier was true. You _haven’t_ been painting as much recently…”

 

You swallow your mouthful hurriedly, “I don’t see how the amount I’ve been painting matters, not compared to what we've heard today”-

 

“It matters,” Mycroft says, “Because I _know_ you. As soon as the chemotherapy starts, as soon as I grow a little weaker, I can see you putting all your energy into running around looking after me, and I don’t want that for you”-

 

“I'm staying”-

 

“As we've agreed,” Mycroft interrupts, “That’s not the issue any longer. The issue is to make sure that you’re coping with everything, to make sure that you don’t let _me_ become your life”-

 

“I don’t mind if you become my life”-

 

“Well I _do,”_ Mycroft protests, “You need to make sure that you still do the things, which you enjoy”-

 

You let out a heavy sigh, “That’s the problem,” you confess, pushing your bowl a little further down towards your knees, “I'm not sure if I _am_ enjoying it any more. I can’t get into it, or seem to complete anything these days…”

 

Mycroft studies you. “Have you had any commissions recently?” he asks. 

 

“Not since I did that one for Greg,” you shake your head. 

 

“Then perhaps the reason you’re feeling that way is because you don’t have a clear focus,” Mycroft concludes. You don’t say anything. You just swallow and look down into your bowl. He pats at your knee. “How about if I were to pay you for doing one, hmm?” he asks. 

 

“Myc I don’t want your”-

 

“I’ll only pay you once it’s complete and if I'm fully happy with it, how about that?” he interrupts, guessing what you were about to say, “Think of it as a challenge.”

 

You nod consideringly. “What would you like me to paint?” you ask.

 

Mycroft thinks upon it. “I’d like you to do a nice acrylic one of the photo you took of us coming back from the restaurant that one night, before we were even together”-

 

“The one where you can see the stars in the background?” you ask. 

 

Mycroft nods, “Yes, that one.”

 

You swallow and just breathe. You know that it will be hard for you to paint and capture such a happy memory, but too you know what Mycroft’s doing. He’s trying to distract you from the bad times to come by reminding you of the good ones that have already been. “Okay,” you nod, “I can do that.” Mycroft looks a little relieved as you pull your bowl closer to you and continue to eat. 

 

A beat passes where you chew and swallow another mouthful, before your husband asks, “Have you thought anything more about what was discussed at the clinic?”

 

You feel a little confused. “Do you mean the cancer? Or the chemotherapy?” 

 

“No,” Mycroft murmurs, looking a little embarrassed. He runs a hand through his hair. “The-The other matter.” Your brow furrows in puzzlement. You wonder if you've missed something. Mycroft swallows, looking both irritated and flustered by the fact that you still haven’t grasped the concept. “The er”- he scrubs at his nose-“The issue that Tom Harvard brought up just before we left. You didn't say anything to it, so I thought it best that we take our leave, but have you considered it a bit further?” You feel suddenly awkward and embarrassed. You wriggle your position slightly and stare at your knees, whilst he watches you with a furrowed brow. “Of course,” he says abruptly, before he clears his throat. You look at him strangely. “Of course you don’t want…that’s fine. I just thought that because of what you said before, about what you wanted in the future…but things have changed now, how silly of me. Forgive me.” He slides forwards as if he might be about to get up, but before he can you place a hand on his knee. His heart jolts and he looks back at you. 

 

“Myc I'm sorry, but I-I must have spaced out or something. I completely missed whatever you’re talking about”- Mycroft’s mouth opens-“Will you explain it to me?”

 

“Oh, um,” Mycroft leans back, again looking embarrassed. He fidgets with his hair. “There’s not much to explain really. Tom was just wondering whether we might want to, well whether _I_ would want to really, that is, before the chemotherapy starts, um, donate some sperm.” He swallows, his eyes are fixed on the blank television and his hands fidget. 

 

 _“Oh,”_ you breathe. His eyes dart to you, before they dart away again. “Well, um”-

 

Mycroft stands up suddenly and takes a couple of steps forwards, whilst he tucks his hands into his pockets. “It’s okay if you don’t want to,” he says, “If I was in your position then I-well-I’d find it difficult. You’d be bringing it up on your own after all. It was just more of a thought really, since-since Sherlock’s not exactly showing any signs of…and since when I'm gone there won’t be…but you don’t have to.” He takes his hands out of his pockets and wipes them against his trousers. “It’s quite a big thing to ask, I wouldn't want”- he breaks off at the tinkling sound that comes as you put your bowl on the floor, before you stand up. He feels your arms wrapping around his waist a moment later and lets out a breath. 

 

“I would be more than happy”-you kiss at his shoulder-“As long as that would be something you’d feel comfortable doing, if you were to donate a sperm sample.”

 

 _“Really?”_ Mycroft twists around. 

 

“Yes, though of course”-your hands go to his belt-“That is if we don’t make a natural one first”-

 

Mycroft lets out a bit of a shaky laugh. “For the record,” he murmurs into your ear as he begins to lift you up, causing the pleasant sound of laughter to leave your mouth, “I married you more for selfish reasons than because of any sensible ones.”

 

 _“Oh?”_ you ask, clutching onto his back, whilst the colours of your eyes pool together as they lock. 

 

“Yes, I did it because I love you and because I, no matter what happened, wanted to be your husband, at least for a little while. I couldn't have coped with it if”- he breaks off when you smother his mouth with a kiss. 

 

He tilts back as you push insistently against him. “For the record I couldn't have coped with not being your wife either,” you tell him as you pull out of the kiss. You smile at each other, Mycroft letting out a bit of a dirty chuckle as you do so. Your lips make to join together again, but before they can Mycroft stumbles backwards and struggles to adjust his hold on you. You grip onto his shoulders for dear life as he alternates between going backwards and forwards. _“Myc”-_ you manage to breathe out warningly, about a second before his foot slips and you both go tumbling forwards together. You cry out as the half-eaten bowls of Chinese tip all over you. 

 

Mycroft’s head jerks away from you. You can feel his soft breaths hitting your shoulder. “Ugh,” he groans, lifting his head, “F/N, I-I'm so”- 

 

“Myc?” you murmur worriedly, running one hand through his hair, whilst the other loosely clasps onto his shoulder. 

 

“'M fine,” he murmurs, though this is quickly put into question by the way he lets out a loud gasp of pain as he attempts to move off you. 

 

 _“Myc?”_ you ask more urgently. 

 

He swats a hand at you. You watch as he reverses more slowly, your face creased in concern. When he’s at a little distance he finally stops, bows his head and pants hard. You feel both a little stunned and frightened by how quickly he seems to have become out of breath, but then you don’t know about all the panic and worry that’s going through his mind at having fallen and risked hurting you. As if he senses your growing concern he looks up. “I hope our baby likes Chinese,” he says, trying to cheer you up. 

 

You let out a choked laugh, before you grin when he smiles tiredly and crawls forwards. You cup his head to your shoulder and kiss at his hair. 

 

“I'm fine F/N,” he soothes, pushing you back a little, before he goes on to kiss you long and hard. 

 

*

 

You've reached your euphoria, but Mycroft’s struggling to reach his. As he continues to thrust he gets all the more breathless and you get all the more concerned. As his breaths turn raspy your hand curls around his wrist. It’s then that he stops. Then that he seems to come out of his mind and suddenly realize what he’s doing. “Myc you don’t”-

 

He pulls out of you, only semi-hard. You let out a bit of a breath as he turns away from you on the bed, before he curls up in on himself. “I hate this,” his body trembles, “I hate it. I can’t even…and earlier on I risked hurting you”-

 

“Myc,” you say anxiously, your hand going to his shoulder. “It’s okay, we can try again sometime. You've had a long day, it’s”-

 

“I’ll just do the sperm sample”-

 

“Okay, okay,” you say, rubbing at his arm. He pulls away. _“Myc?”_

 

“Leave me,” he mutters. 

 

“I”-

 

“Why don’t you just leave me?” he says angrily, punching at his pillow. 

 

You let out a little breath. “We've been through this,” you remind him patiently, “As you agreed I'm not leaving you.” You stroke at his back. It automatically relaxes a little underneath your touch. 

 

That’s when it finally happens. His body begins to shake, vibrate and finally Mycroft Holmes starts to cry because of what he’s going through. You feel alarmed by the suddenness of it all. Not to mention frightened by the sight of your husband breaking down so completely, and at the mix of sound that leaves his mouth: partly wracking sobs and partly hacking coughs. But, of course wanting to comfort him nonetheless, you move forwards, your body still slick with sweat from your own exertions, before you wrap your arms around him. His sobs diffuse into a hiccup, before; all snotty and wet he turns around to you. “My body can’t even work like it’s supposed to,” he moans. 

 

“Like I said earlier”-you run a soothing hand through his hair-“You've had a long day. You’re probably just tired.”

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I'm not,” he says, his eyes glassy, “I'm not tired. I'm broken,” he gurgles. 

 

“Not to me,” you say, stroking at his hair, before you pull him to you. “Never to me. You could be the frailest, most delicate man in the world, but you’d still have something more than anyone else has got as far as I'm concerned”-Mycroft pulls his head back a little and sniffs-“You’d still be you.”

 

Mycroft swallows and you pull him to you again, rubbing at his back as his breaths continue to hitch and shift against you. It takes a while, but finally his breaths even out until he falls asleep with one hand sloppily stretched out over your waist. You take a moment just to swallow, before you press the gentlest of kisses against his forehead. Then you pull away from him and swing out of bed. You dress quickly, before you leave the room. 

 

You end up on the settee, a cup of tea in between your hands, whilst silent tears stream down your face. You know, in that moment, that Mycroft and you will never have sex again. 

 

*

 

It’s two weeks later and a Wednesday at the end of September when you wake up to the sound of Mycroft coughing as he gets dressed. 

 

You blink a little to get out of your haze, before you roll around onto your back. You push yourself into a sitting up position to see that your husband’s standing in front of the mirror, doing up his tie. 

 

“Morning,” Mycroft murmurs a little irritably.

 

You let out a little breath, studying him. His shoulders are taut, his body tense. You remember that he’s got his first chemotherapy session the next day and suddenly everything makes more sense. Your heart feels heavy, and your mind uncertain as to what you should say to him. 

 

In the end, even though you know that it might serve to irritate him, you opt for asking, “Do you really have to wear a tie? Or have your shirt buttoned up so much?” For even though he’s been taking medication for his cough the fact that he’s ignored every other bit of common sense the clinic have recommended to him hasn’t escaped you. You know that he’s been pushing himself too hard, and it scares you. 

 

Mycroft’s hands still, before they push the knot of the tie into place. Slowly, he turns around and looks at you. “Unless I want everyone to think that I'm unprofessional and that I don’t know what I'm doing, then yes, it’s important that I dress this way”-

 

“Myc,” you interrupt him. He raises his eyebrows at you. “No one’s ever going to think that you don’t know what you’re doing, and I think that everyone knows you well enough by now to know that you’re the least unprofessional person on earth. Besides, I wasn't saying that you should do anything drastic, I was just thinking that if you had things even a little bit looser it might help with your cough and overall breathing”-

 

“If I need your advice then I’ll ask for it,” Mycroft says shortly, before he turns his back on you and goes across to slide a dark jacket off its hanger in the wardrobe. “There’s nothing wrong with my breathing,” he mutters frustratedly. 

 

You sit up straighter, your body stiffening. “I was only trying to help,” you say, feeling hurt even though you know that you shouldn't be taking his behaviour seriously. 

 

“Even so, I know what’s best for me, and what I can cope with,” Mycroft says, still with his back turned towards you as he slips his jacket on. “I'm not fallible”-

 

“I'm sorry,” you say, swinging out of bed and getting to your feet, “But yes, yes you are!” Mycroft spins around to look at you, his eyes dark. “We _all_ are!” you say to counter his penetrating gaze, “And you need to stop being so damn uptight about all this and look at what you’re doing”-

 

“I know _exactly_ what I'm doing,” Mycroft retorts, “I'm dressing and then I'm going to work. I’ll be in my office at Canary Wharf today if you wish to dispense any more advice”-

 

“You’re being stubborn,” you tell him, stepping forwards and wishing that you could make him see how silly he’s being. 

 

He gives you the briefest of looks, before he says, “Good day to you.” He strides out of the room. 

 

You let out a sound of frustration and toss a pillow at the door, before you slump back down onto the bed. You hate him acting like this, all business-like, as if you’re just moving house or something and he’s not dying from cancer. Over the past couple of weeks he’s been going to the solicitors to make final adjustments to his will, arranging to change both of your bank accounts so that they’re joint rather than separate and going to the clinic to get the sperm sample done. In short he’s been doing everything that’s practical and that he can find to be done, rather than dare face either his feelings or yours. You've found yourself biting at your lip and feeling frustrated- just as you do now-whenever he’s discussed any of this with you, and especially when he’s used the phrase, ‘It will make it easier for you when I die.’ Sometimes-like you do now-you've felt like screaming or hitting him, and telling him that you don’t want things to be any easier when he dies because you don’t want him to die in the first place. On more than one occasion you've stormed off into the spare room and got annoyed with everything, whilst you've tried to continue the painting that he’d requested you do. But most of the time you've just found that you feel numb and like you’re going through the motions of everything. 

 

You don’t feel numb today though. You just feel angry and upset and unable to concentrate on anything. You try and carry on with the painting of Mycroft and you, but you just find yourself mixing colours more than actually painting. Your mind thrums with the words Mycroft and you had spoken to one another that morning. Aside from feeling frustrated with how constantly stubborn he’s being your mind keeps going back to, which office he’d revealed that he’d be going to. You know that it’s rare that he goes to the Canary Wharf one. He much prefers the offices that are closer to the heart of town, and the ones, which are more enclosed and that have less distractions. The more you think about it the more you can’t help but feel it’s significant that, the day before chemotherapy he’s chosen to go somewhere that’s more on the edge of town and which has an office with a view rather than to his usual destinations. Can’t help but think that he’s finally showing with an action just how torn up he is inside about everything and how he’s railing against his own mortality, even though he’s trying his best not to show it. You imagine him staring out of the glass windows, his hands in his pockets, no doubt using the view to assist his thoughts, and it makes you feel sad. You let out a sigh, step back and decide to call it a day painting-wise. You deal with the brushes and clear everything away, before you step out of the flat and head off. 

 

You end up at Tower Bridge again. You’re just staring out at the Thames; whilst your mind feels awash with the same points that you've been going over all day when a familiar voice asks, “Fancy some company?” 

 

You look around, your shoulders sagging a little in relief when you see that it’s just Sherlock. You’re not sure how you would have reacted if it had been Mycroft. “Okay,” you say, letting out a bit of a sigh.

 

He joins you and peers at you for a moment, before he looks out onto the Thames. “How’s my brother?”

 

“Business-like,” you reply curtly. 

 

“That bothers you?” Sherlock asks, turning around so that he’s got his back to the river as he looks at you. 

 

You give him a look as if to say, _‘Heck yes that bothers me,’_ before you let out a long sigh. “I wouldn't expect you to understand,” you breathe, but when Sherlock’s eyes flicker with something you quickly add, “Because you’re a Holmes, not because of anything else. I just”-you struggle-“I guess I just don’t think he’s really letting me in that much, or taking it seriously, well I _know_ that he’s taking it seriously, but”-

 

“Feelings wise?” Sherlock suggests. 

 

You nod, feeling grateful that he seems to understand where you’re driving at. “I guess I'm just feeling worried about what exactly is going to happen when-when there’s nothing left on his list to sort out. I mean…” you trail off, “At some point he’s going to have to cut down a little on work, whether he likes it or not. Especially with the chemo starting tomorrow…so what-what’s he going to be like then?”

 

“An intolerable menace probably,” Sherlock says, and you smile for a minute because that sounds so Mycroftion of him. “It’s what he used to call me sometimes as a child,” Sherlock adds, and suddenly everything makes sense. You let out a little laugh. _“What?”_

 

You shake your head. “I don’t know,” you smile ruefully, “It’s not like I’ve got much to be laughing or smiling about, it’s just the things that the both of you come out with sometimes…” you trail off, and both Sherlock and your faces get more serious as you realize that one day you’ll be standing there and it won’t be ‘both’ it will just be Sherlock.

 

“Is he letting you go with him tomorrow?” Sherlock asks. 

 

“No,” you reply softly, shaking your head. You shift your position. It hadn’t really come to you as a surprise. “He says that he wants to keep me out of it. He saw me getting upset before he went into surgery and he doesn’t want me doing the same with his chemo, though what he fails to understand is that no matter where I am I’ll be upset and that I’ll have to deal with him on chemo anyway, whether I actually see it entering his body or not…”

 

Sherlock makes a sound of acknowledgement to show that he’s heard you, before he turns and walks away. You look after him a little sadly because it had felt good to express your feelings to someone who actually gets and knows Mycroft. You’d tried ringing the help lines on the cards that Mycroft had given you a couple of times but found them inadequate in the people there actually getting to the heart of your feelings and in understanding the odd enigma that is Mycroft Holmes.

 

*

 

 **You should probably try and open up to your wife more. She’s worried. Let her go with you to the clinic tomorrow. It will be better for the both of you. SH.** Is the text that Mycroft receives from his brother when he’s got his head buried in the paperwork that’s spread right across his desk.

 

Mycroft lets out an irritated little growl. **I don’t need your advice on how to treat my wife Sherlock. I’ll treat her how I wish. Whether she goes tomorrow is absolutely none of your concern. Now, I'm very busy, so if you’d kindly stop sending me nonsensical messages then it would be much appreciated,** is all that he sends back, before he lets his phone slip out of his hand and onto the mess of papers that’s on his desk.

 

He pulls back towards the wall a little, before he unlocks the drawer, which he keeps his emergency scotch in and gets up to pour himself a glass. He takes it across to the glass wall and looks moodily out. The cancer, and more importantly the chemotherapy that he’s facing tomorrow have been in the back of his mind all morning, ever since the previous night where he’d been struggling to sleep in fact, and he does not need his brother or you reminding him of it even more. 

 

His phone goes off behind him, and as it vibrates and buzzes he turns around to it with a furrowed brow. A flicker of concern erupts inside him in spite of himself. Could it be from you? Are you really having _that_ much difficulty with the way he’s behaving? Are you perhaps hurt by what he’d said to you this morning? Suddenly, as he swiftly goes across, he regrets treating you so callously. But as soon as he picks up the phone and sees that it’s from Sherlock, before he reads: **How mature of you,** Mycroft lets out a sigh, slams the phone down forcefully on the desk and drains his glass. 

 

*

 

It’s eight o’ clock that evening and Mycroft’s still not home. Its been a while since he’s worked this late and to say that you’re starting to get concerned would be an understatement of epic proportions. Especially considering what’s happening tomorrow and your last conversation with one another. You can’t concentrate; you keep wriggling about on the settee, whilst some TV show that you don’t even know the name of plays aimlessly in the background. You keep taking your phone out of your pocket and half-making to press Mycroft’s number, before you sigh, change your mind and shove your phone back into your pocket again. 

 

The next time you get your phone out of your pocket-all too aware of the time and of the fact that this is getting more than ridiculous-you don’t put it away again until you've sent a text to Mycroft. _Where are you?_

 

You get a response ten minutes later: **Something’s come up. Will be home late. Don’t stay up. M.**

 

You swear and huff out a breath. You've got a feeling that the ‘something’ is the fact that Mycroft’s angry about the fact that he’s got to do chemotherapy tomorrow and take time off work because of it. Got a feeling that he doesn’t want to face you tonight. That he’d rather just come home late when you’re already in bed and try and ignore everything. You’re pretty damn sure that it’s not anything work related. 

 

You think about your options. You could stay as you are and essentially follow Mycroft’s advice. You snort. _Yeah, like that’s going to happen,_ you think. You’d rather do the chemotherapy tomorrow yourself than stay here a second longer. You could phone Sherlock or one of your other friends, though you’d probably just end up coming to the same conclusion that Mycroft’s coming home late because of his chemo rather than an actual need. _Or,_ you think, you could go get your husband and bring him home. You deliberate a moment longer. You’re not sure what Mycroft would make of your last option, but it’s the one that works best for you. You get up, do a quick change of your clothes and then head out. 

 

When you get to the office you've barely entered the reception area when Anthea comes scurrying up to you. 

 

“F/N,” she says, looking relieved. You look at her with a furrowed brow. “Thank goodness. He won’t leave. He’s been sitting in his office all night, all day in fact, mumbling agitatedly, whilst he does his paperwork. He’s already tried to send me home, but I wasn't sure if…anyway, I think he’s just popped to the loo, so maybe you could go to his office and wait for him there?”

 

You scrub a hand across your face, “Sure, go home,” you tell her.

 

“Are you sure?”-

 

“I’ll handle this,” you nod. She looks a little reassured, but still uncertain. You put a hand upon her shoulder, “Thank you.”

 

She nods and goes to fetch her things. 

 

You head to Mycroft’s office to find that his desk looks like a bomb has hit it. At first glance it’s covered in a mess of papers, but on closer inspection you can see that the papers have actually been put into more orderly piles. In a rare paper-free corner stands a bottle of scotch, which is three-quarters of the way empty and a glass that only has a minute amount of the amber liquid left inside it. You make to fill it up. 

 

When Mycroft returns it’s to find you sitting in his chair with your feet up on the desk and your ankles crossed, whilst you sip at the scotch that he’d intended to drink all alone. 

 

You look at him and see that his face looks pale and tired, as if he’s been working straight for several months without sleep. He looks surprised and more alert however when he sees you. 

 

“F/N,” he breathes, “What are you doing here?”

 

You take another sip of scotch for good luck, before you answer, “Doing my duties as a good wife.” You lower the glass back to the desk as you further take in his unkempt appearance. “I know I don’t know much medically, but I'm pretty sure that drinking alcohol and killing yourself with paperwork aren't the requirements, before you take chemotherapy.”

 

“Better I die because of work than because of cancer,” Mycroft murmurs, hurrying towards you. 

 

“Better for who?” you ask, “Because it damn well isn't better for me. If I had my way you’d never die at all, through any means.”

 

He half-glances at you. “You shouldn't be here, people will think that I'm giving you access to information and then they’ll _really_ have an excuse to sack me,” he informs you, rather than dare admit that he’s been touched by your statement. He begins to collect the papers up quickly.

 

You stare at him, feeling both surprised and incredulous. “Are you really worried about that? About being sacked? After all the work you've done they’d be fools to get rid of you, before they had to”-

 

“Open your eyes F/N,” Mycroft says roughly; causing you to frown, “They’re already starting to distribute my work amongst others. Don’t think that I don’t know that they've been holding secret meetings to plan for after I die either, because I”-

 

“Well you’re not dead yet,” you say, “In any case why you care about what a bunch of goldfish think is beyond me.” Mycroft blows out a breath and looks slightly lighter. Light enough for you to say, “In any case, I wasn't looking at anything. I just want you to come home.”

 

“Yes,” Mycroft clears his throat, his face hardening, “But as I told you earlier, and as I'm sure Anthea has told you”-

 

“I sent Anthea home, which is where you should be.” Mycroft hesitates in adding to his paper pile, half-bent over the side of his desk. You stand up. “Myc”-

 

“I’ll come home when I'm finished F/N,” he interrupts you curtly, not looking at you. 

 

“Don’t lie,” you blurt out. He looks at you a little questioningly. You shoot him a challenging gaze. “Do you really think that I'm that stupid? That I don’t know what this is really about?” You take a breath. “This hasn’t got anything to do with your work. This is about you not wanting to face tomorrow”-

 

“This has got _nothing_ to do with tomorrow”-

 

“If you’re so fine with it then why can’t you be sensible enough to come home?” 

 

“Because I don’t want to!” Mycroft roars. You flinch as his spit goes flying, “I don’t want to go home and spend another night sitting with you on the settee where all we can think about is cancer!”

 

“Then next time tell me that instead of hiding here and we can do something else”-

 

“Like what?”-

 

“I don’t know,” you search around desperately, _“Something,”_ you settle on. 

 

He lets out a snort and looks down. “Go home F/N”-

 

“Not until you come with me,” you interrupt, watching as he slips the papers into a folder and takes said folder across to the filing cabinet. 

 

Once he’s done he just stands facing the shut cabinet. You can see his side-profile and part of his brow as it crinkles up. “I'm not going home tonight”-

 

“Then I guess we’ll just have to have a nice little sleepover here, because there’s no way I'm leaving you. Perhaps we can stitch some of your papers together with paper-clips to make a blanket”-

 

“Sometimes I wonder why I married you,” Mycroft says, turning to face you.

 

You look at each other. A brief glimmer of a tight smile flickers onto his face and you can see something else there too. _Respect._

 

“You married me, because,” you say, heading towards him, “You knew that, despite all your fears, I'm good for you, and, in spite of everything, you didn't want to give that up. Not when it came down to it.”

 

Mycroft releases a little groan, and you know that, that’s him finally bowing to you in submission. The pair of you share a brief kiss. He gently cups at your elbows with his hands as you come out of it. You know that, that’s him checking that you’re all right after everything he’s said that day and you nod, your hands going to adjust his tie. He squeezes you and leans forwards so that his lips can briefly brush against your forehead, before he withdraws and lets go of you. “I'm sorry,” he murmurs, “I’ve been cruel to you today.” He moves towards the glass wall, which overlooks the city. “You know, I expect,” he goes on, “Why I came to this particular office.” 

 

“You needed the view, something to steer your thoughts and remind you of everything that’s going on in the world besides your cancer,” you find that the words tumble out of your mouth automatically as you go across to join him. 

 

He makes a sound of acknowledgement. “It’s true,” he says, “I’ve been looking out all day, and watching how everything continues to turn.” He looks momentarily bitter. “But the truth is, that in the end, it all comes back down to my cancer,” he peers down at you, “I don’t expect you to understand this,” he says, “But it got to a point today where I couldn't help realize that I'm a bit like this part of London now”-you look at him in concern, your brow furrowing-“On the edge of everything, still there but more indistinct. I couldn't help think that when it comes down to it no one cares that I’ll be forced to put my life on hold tomorrow. Everyone will just be carrying on as normal. No one will stop or spare a thought for me.”

 

You get the sudden feeling that you should have come to the office earlier, perhaps even in the day to help steer Mycroft’s thoughts away from his own misery. “I will,” you say finally, feeling guilty for not having arrived sooner as you slip your hand into his. 

 

He looks at you. “I don’t mean _you”-_

 

_“Why?_ Because I don’t count? Because I'm your wife and I’ve already proved that I’ll be there for you?” you let go of his hand. 

 

He shifts his position. “I guess what I'm trying to say is that I just wish the world would sit up and pay attention for once”-

 

“When you spend your entire life skulking in the shadows you can’t expect the world to suddenly be there for you when you step out into the sun,” you tell him. 

 

He looks around at you and lets out a choked, disbelieving sound. “Sensible, smart, _and_ not afraid to tell me when I'm wrong. Yes,” Mycroft sighs, “That would be why I married you.”

 

You let out a breath of relief and your lip quirks upward. You take his hand in yours. “I hope that there are a few other adjectives in there.”

 

He smiles. “Come Mrs. Holmes, we need to get home.”

 

*

 

When you’re at home and in bed Mycroft’s hands wander beneath your pyjama top for the first time since the day it was revealed that his cancer had returned. They push and prod at your skin, moving slowly upward, before they gently make to cup and squeeze at your breasts. You let out a little moan and close your eyes, savouring the feel of your husband’s hands there, but all of a sudden it seems he withdraws them, lets out a big whoosh of breath and turns away from you. You open your eyes to see that he’s now sitting on the edge of the bed, his back facing you. 

 

“Myc?” you question concernedly, moving more securely onto your side and propping up your head with your hand. 

 

“We should be having sex now,” he says. You swallow as he looks back at you, “Do you know that?” he asks, before he looks away from you again. 

 

You hesitate, “I suppose.”

 

“But I can’t,” Mycroft blurts out, and as you study him you see that he looks tense and thoughtful. His back is hunched over. You watch as his hands go from being on his lap to either side of his legs, watch as they unfurl, before they fist up again. “You probably already know, but I can’t…I can’t give you what you want tonight, or any other night”-

 

 _“Mycroft?”_ you murmur, and your voice is soft. It flutters across to him and makes him look back to you. 

 

“Yes?” he breathes. 

 

You let out a little breath, before you adjust your position until you come to be sitting beside him. You stroke at his hand, but he pulls it uncertainly away. “Of course I'm sad that we won’t ever get to be that way again, and angry”-his leg twitches ever so slightly, “Not with you, but with the cancer,” you add, reading his mind, “But we can still touch each other and be close in other ways can’t we?” Mycroft turns towards you enquiringly. You let out a little breath, before you turn to face him more. Slowly you lift your hands up. With trembling fingers you undo the buttons on his pyjama jacket, before you carefully brush your palms across his exposed chest, sliding them beneath where the jacket still covers and gently feeling at the skin there. 

 

He shudders a little underneath your touch. “It h-hurts,” he says in a shaky breath. You withdraw your hands automatically. “N-No, the cancer,” he corrects you, “All this.”

 

“I know,” you say delicately as one hand goes back upon his chest, whilst the other goes to first brush at his cheek, before it twists to cup the back of his head. 

 

Your eyes flicker against each other’s for a moment and then his lips are on yours, first soft then firm. You groan a little at the contact. He kisses you twice fervently, before he pulls back. You’re astonished to see that he’s crying. Before the cancer you’d never seen him cry, and now you've seen him do so twice in a relatively short amount of time. “I hate it F/N,” he says as your eyes widen, “I hate it. I hate the way it makes me feel, the way it makes me react to you when you’re only being kind to me. The way I can’t stop myself from being cruel to you even though I want to.” 

 

Your hand strokes at the hair upon the back of his neck for a moment. “I know,” you murmur, before you start a little as he lets out a gurgle and pushes his head down against your shoulder. You rock him as he begins to cry even more, before you guide him back underneath the covers.

 

“I hate it, I hate it,” he mutters when you take hold of him. 

 

“Shh, shh,” you soothe, “It’s okay, it’s okay,” you murmur, holding his body close to yours with one hand, whilst the other is still tightly fisted in his hair. 

 

He sniffs and snuffles against you, occasionally moving but more often than not still. When he finally pulls away from you his eyes shine with tears. You study him concernedly. “You know,” he begins falteringly, “That I-that I still love you don’t you? It’s not that I don’t want to be intimate with you, it’s just that I can’t bring myself to”-

 

“I know,” you reassure him, letting go of his hair and rubbing at his chest, “I know.”

 

Mycroft nods dumbly, before he goes on to kiss you sloppily. He’s asleep a moment later. 

 

You stare at him concernedly for a time, before you brush the back of your hand against his hair. You withdraw it with the words, “Sleep well my love.” 

 

*

 

As the month moves into October that morning Mycroft looks at you over breakfast and asks, “Will you be coming with me today?”

 

“I thought that I wasn't allowed?” you comment, raising an eyebrow. He swallows and pokes at his cereal with his spoon, before he glances at you. “I don’t want to go simply because you’re feeling bad about the way you treated me yesterday either,” you warn him. “If I'm there then I want to be of some use to you. I don’t want to go just for you to change your mind and decide that you don’t want me there after all.” 

 

He pushes his cereal bowl aside. “You would be of some use to me,” he tells you, sounding a little hurt, before he admits, “I think I’d appreciate your company.” The light way that he says such a thing tells you that he’s scared. You nod without further comment. 

 

*

 

Mycroft, fighting against the cancer the only way he knows how, brings his laptop with him to the clinic, and whilst the chemotherapy steadily enters his system through an IV drip, he taps away at the device fairly happily. 

 

You can’t help notice though that his brow is furrowed and his eyes seem to be on constant watch. When he looks up again you say, “You do know that everyone’s focus here is primarily on getting better or on helping people to get better don’t you?” Mycroft’s eyes swivel to land on you, and you can’t help but smile at how suddenly puzzled he looks. “Not on stealing state secrets from your laptop.” 

 

Mycroft smiles and lets out a chuckle in spite of himself. “You've caught me being silly my dear.”

 

“It's not the first time,” you quip, stroking at his hand with a knowing smile of your own, before you go back to your book. Your smile only grows a moment later when he pats at your hand, humming a little, before he goes back to his work more contentedly. 

 

*

 

Over the next couple of weeks, whenever Mycroft’s in the clinic for chemo, you almost take on the new job of his additional PA, bringing papers to and fro, delivering them to the office or meeting Anthea outside. 

 

Though you first take up the role keenly, wanting to do whatever you can to support him and to allow him to live as much of a normal life as possible, it doesn’t escape you that as time goes by Mycroft gets continually weaker. He’s more prone to bursts of breathlessness and to leaning more heavily against his umbrella. You know that it can only be a matter of time before, for his own good, Mycroft will have to make some serious changes to his life. Yet as much as you want to ask him about it or push him in that particular direction, every time you’re on the verge of doing so you lose your nerve. How can you tell a chronic workaholic that they can’t work as much any more?

 

Things all come to a head when you wake up one night. At first you’re not sure why you've woken. It’s only when you hear the sound of Mycroft being sick that you realize and you sit up, before you switch the bedside lamp on. A dip in the bed tells you that he had at least gone there. You push the duvet back, but before you can get out of bed Mycroft enters the room, moving slowly and looking flushed and exhausted. 

 

“Myc?”

 

“'M fine,” he mutters, waving a hand at you to stop you from getting out of bed. He pauses for a moment, whilst he clutches at the wall and looks like he wishes you’d never woken. He hobbles towards you and you swing out of bed, going to support him. “Not an invalid,” he breathes, but he manages to sound more tired than embarrassed, which worries you. 

 

Despite that though you find yourself trying to distract him when you say, “You sound like Mrs. Hudson.” You settle him carefully down on the edge of the bed, before you go on, “She’s always telling Sherlock and John that she’s not their housekeeper.”

 

“Even though everyone knows she is,” he pants. 

 

“Yes,” you smile in a watery fashion, brushing back his hair with your hand. Even carrying out that simple gesture sends some strands off onto the bed. “It’s coming out,” you breathe.

 

“Yes,” Mycroft acknowledges tiredly, steeling himself a little as he gets his breath back. 

 

You swallow. “It’s okay. We can get you a little hat, or a bandanna if you want to please Sherlock.”

 

Mycroft smiles a little at the remark, but doesn’t say anything. Slowly he shifts himself under the covers and lies down. His breaths come out in a wheeze. 

 

You settle back into bed yourself and peer down at him concernedly, “Do you want me to get you anything? Water or”-

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “Just want you,” he breathes. 

 

“Well, I come for free,” you hum, not being able to help but smile as you snuggle down beside him and rest a hand delicately on top of his pyjama jacket. 

 

“You shouldn't,” Mycroft murmurs, before the two of you lapse into a silence where you listen to Mycroft’s jagged breathing and wish that it could play a more peaceful tune. 

 

Slowly, as if his lungs have heard your silent plea and are trying to obey, his breaths even out more. You can’t remember the last time they became properly even. “Have you had any thoughts about work at all?” you ask him, not being able to avoid it any more, “About cutting down or”-

 

His breath catches and he sits up as he begins to cough. You sit up too and wait for the moment to subside, before you both settle down again. 

 

“Not really. I want to carry on for as long as I can,” Mycroft says, staring at the ceiling. 

 

“I know,” you breathe, rubbing at his chest, “But don’t you think that it might be sensible to”-

 

“It’s under control”-

 

“Myc,” you say worriedly, “I love you, but you can’t just keep”-

 

“Can’t just keep pretending that I'm not dying of cancer? Because I can confirm to you that I have absolutely no intention of giving in or stopping my normal life any time”- he breaks off and wriggles about a bit, lifting his head up as he has another coughing fit. 

 

You sit up and look down at him. “I'm not saying that you should give up, I'm just saying that I think you should compromise some more and actually appreciate the gravity of what’s happening to your body.”

 

Mycroft huffs out a breath and rolls around so that he’s turned away from you. 

 

You half-open your mouth, before you close it again and settle down behind him. Tentatively you wrap your arms around his middle. 

 

“Fine,” he murmurs, holding your hands to his stomach, “I’ll cut down on my days a little and listen to my body more. Are you happy that I'm going to be miserable now?”

 

You peck at his shoulder. “Not if you’re going to be miserable no,” you say. You can feel him, in spite of himself, beginning to relax underneath your touch. It makes you smile. 

 

*

 

In the end it’s arranged, that-as the doses of chemotherapy get heavier-Mycroft will go into the office three days a week and work from home for the rest. 

 

This works well at first because you feel that you can keep a better eye on him. It’s also nice to have him around the flat more. 

 

But two weeks later, when he’s at work, you get a phone call. 

 

You’d just been about to make lunch, but when your phone vibrates and you see that it’s Mycroft you take the call immediately. 

 

“Myc, hi”-

 

“F/N,” says a voice that is most definitely not your husband’s but Anthea’s. Your heart plummets. 

 

“Anthea what is it? What’s happened?”-

 

“Mycroft fell at work”-

 

“Oh God”-

 

“F/N, listen to me, he’s all right, but I couldn't lift him. He’s at the hospital and they've contacted the people at the bone sarcoma clinic. Tom something, is it Tom? He said that he’d be calling in to have a meeting with Mycroft. Mycroft said that he didn't want you at the meeting, but that I was to call you and notify you about what had happened”-

 

“I don’t care, I'm going to the hospital and I'm coming to the meeting”-

 

“I thought you’d say that, as did Mycroft. Listen, the meeting has already started, but there should be a black car pulling up outside your flat right about now. Get inside it and it will take you to hospital. I’ll be waiting outside for you and I’ll take you to where the meeting’s being held.”

 

“Right, okay, thank you Anthea”-

 

“It’s no problem F/N. I’ll see you soon.”

 

*

 

You get to the hospital a little later than you’d like after getting stuck in a traffic jam. Finally you’re there and running across to where Anthea’s waiting outside the Accident and Emergency doors, looking unfazed by everything that’s going on around her as she taps away at her phone. 

 

“F/N,” she says, looking up once you announce your arrival with a clatter of feet. “Follow me.”

 

As Anthea escorts you through corridor after corridor you barrage her with questions. Where did Mycroft fall? His office. How long was it before he was found? Anthea’s not sure exactly, but it sounds like it might have been for several minutes. Apparently he’d just gone to fetch something, returned with it and twisted his ankle, sending him sprawling forwards and his head catching against his desk. His breathlessness and the sudden shock of it all had prevented himself from pushing himself up as he would normally have. He’d been intending to just lie there for a few moments and try and get up then, so he’d been very red-faced and irritable when Anthea had found him. That’s why she’d ended up calling for an ambulance rather than getting someone from the office to help lift him. 

 

She stops outside a door and sends you a bit of a serious look, before she pushes it open. 

 

“…I assure you that I don’t need”- Mycroft’s in the middle of saying. He breaks off when you walk in, before he half-rises from his chair, looking, as Anthea had suggested he would, largely unsurprised to see you. 

 

You however feel more than a little surprised and alarmed by his appearance. You even stop at the doorway for a moment with your mouth open. He’s got a cut above his right eye that he’s had to have dissolvable stitches for and a bruise just beneath it. His clothes look unusually loose and make you realize suddenly just how much weight he’s lost, whilst his face is pale and his right arm is in a loose sling. He looks, on the whole, grumpy and irritable, but you still feel that pull of love towards him just like you always have. 

 

“F/N,” he properly rises and gestures with his left hand for you to join him. 

 

You go across and stroke gently at his face as soon as you reach him. _“Myc”-_

 

“I'm fine F/N,” he pulls away from you, nods at Anthea to leave the room and then gestures with his hand for you to take a seat beside him. 

 

You do so, and once you’re both settled down your eyes go to Tom who says, “Ah F/N, good of you to join us. Before you came we’d been discussing how it might be more beneficial if Mycroft were to work at home from now on, to which”-

 

“To which I was going to say that it’s a completely unrealistic prospect because I need to be on hand in the office”- you put a cooling hand on your husband’s free arm to stop his fiery words. He looks at you. 

 

“I know you want to keep working, and no one’s telling you not to,” you begin, “But Myc we've talked about this, and what with you falling today you've got to be realistic”-

 

“F/N’s right. If you’d found yourself on the floor for a long period of time than you could have ended up with something a lot worse than a few cuts and bruises and a fracture,” Tom states. 

 

Mycroft glares at him, so you pat him on the arm and get him to look back at you. “Listen to me, we've made it work when you've had to be away from the office with your chemotherapy before, so I'm sure that as long as we’re both organized about it we can make it work again. I could run some errands for you and”-

 

“Of course that wouldn't be a long-term solution,” Tom interjects, and this time _you_ find yourself being the one to glare at him. ‘But as a short-term one then yes, I agree, it should work.”

 

“I'm not happy about this,” Mycroft huffs, leaning back in his chair. You swipe your thumb a couple of times across his arm, but he tugs it away. He looks at Tom. “I’d like a proper analysis of exactly what the benefits are for me taking chemotherapy to be conducted. As far as I can see it’s doing more damage to my system and weakening me more than the cancer ever has”-

 

“Myc for God’s sake, you have to keep taking it,” you say in both a shocked tone and one that suggests such a thing is not even up for debate. 

 

Mycroft acts as if you’d never spoken. He just continues to fix his gaze on Tom and quirks an eyebrow up as if to say, _‘Well?’_

 

“You’ll be having scans in due course and an evaluation of the work done by the chemotherapy will be carried out then,” Tom concludes. 

 

Mycroft makes a sound as if to say that’s just about acceptable. 

 

Tom shuffles Mycroft’s case notes and returns them to a manila folder. “Right, in that case I think that’s everything”-he glances at you-“F/N, would it be possible for me to have a quick word with you? In private?”

 

Your mouth opens in surprise and you can feel Mycroft bristling at once. “If it’s all the same to you then I'm sure you can say whatever you want to say to my wife in front of me.”

 

Tom looks between you as if he’s just realized that he can’t avoid stepping into a muddy puddle, whichever way he turns. You give him an apologetic sort of grimace. “Very well,” Tom begins, laying Mycroft’s folder back down onto the table, “In that case, though I'm sure it’s not something you’d like the thought of, I was about to suggest that since you’ll be spending more time at home, it might be an idea if you started having a nurse pop around. It wouldn't have to be that often, just every now and again to check on how you’re doing and assist F/N with anything that she might not feel comfortable or capable of doing herself.”

 

You lay a firmer hand across Mycroft’s arm. “We’ll manage”-Tom opens his mouth-“Thank you, but we’ll manage.” Mycroft looks at you and you know in that moment that you’re both thinking the same thing and that you’re united. Tom wants a nurse to start visiting now so that by the time Mycroft gets weaker the nurse will already have an established presence in the flat, making you both feel more comfortable around her in the long run. But that’s not the point. Mycroft’s not there yet, and you’re both unwilling to allow such an intrusion so early on, if indeed ever. He may have fallen today, but that was just a blip. 

 

Tom stares at you both, and knowing that he’s not going to get any further he makes to pick up the case notes again with a, “Very well, just something for you to bear in mind.”

 

Mycroft and you both nod with tight mouths, nether of you willing to succumb. 

 

*

 

You wake five weeks later at the beginning of December to the sound of typing. You let out a gurgle of discontent and snuggle down into your pillow, keeping your eyes determinedly scrunched shut. But when the sound of typing persists, louder even than the splatter of rain that’s against the window, you open them. 

 

Your husband, now bald and with his sling gone-thank God, as he’d been very irritable all the time that he’d had to wear it-is sitting up in bed, his laptop perched on top of the duvet, clacking away. 

 

You let out a groan. “What time is it?” you mumble as he momentarily stops his typing to peer down at you. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes go to the time at the bottom of his laptop screen. “Five minutes past six,” he replies promptly when he looks back at you. 

 

“And the day?” you ask him, just in case you’re mistaken. 

 

Mycroft’s brow furrows for a moment, and you’re pleased to see that he looks momentarily concerned for your welfare. “Saturday,” he replies. 

 

“Then no,” you say, rolling away from him and getting out of bed. Mycroft looks baffled. “You’re not to be working in bed at this hour, and quite frankly even if it was a weekday I’d be doing what I am now.” You go around to his side of the bed and prise the laptop out of his hands. 

 

“F/N, that’s-I need”- he begins to protest. 

 

 _“No,”_ you say, shaking your head at him, whilst you leave the room. You carry the laptop across to the kitchen table and place it down there, before you return to the room and a frowning Mycroft a moment later. “You don’t need to be looking at anything right now”-Mycroft opens his mouth to protest-“What you need to be doing is recuperating after finishing your second cycle of chemotherapy. Not to mention after doing all those scans. You should be having a lie-in, not”-

 

“I need to send some e-mails, and I need to read over a couple of documents that Anthea”-

 

“Later,” you interrupt him, “For now you’re going to lie back down and rest.”

 

He looks at where you’re now at the bottom of the bed with your arms folded, staring him down. “What about you?” he asks. 

 

Your brow furrows. _“Huh?”_ you ask, thrown by the question. 

 

Mycroft raises an eyebrow. “Will you be joining me?”

 

You bite at your lip. You look around for a moment, before your eyes go back to him. “Now that I'm up I need to wash some clothes and try and plan what we’re going to eat this week. I’ll pop out to the shop later to get some things, unless you want me to”-

 

“You’re a hypocrite,” Mycroft informs you, loosely folding his arms across his chest, “You need to come back to bed and talk to me.”

 

You frown at him, “Maybe in a while, and I'm not a hypocrite, but now that I'm up I might as well get going with things”-

 

“You can get going with things in an hour. Until then you’re to get back into bed and talk to me”-you open your mouth in protest-“That’s not a suggestion Mrs. Holmes. That’s an order,” he notifies you. 

 

You swallow and let out a little breath, before your shoulders slump in resignation. You go across, flip the duvet up and slide underneath it. 

 

Mycroft, looking more satisfied, turns toward you and you both slide down onto your sides. He places a delicate hand upon your waist, whilst your e/c eyes do the best they can to avoid his blue ones as they peer at you concernedly. “When was the last time we had a moment like this?” he asks. 

 

Your face scrunches up as you try to remember. It’s been a busy five weeks on the whole, what with Mycroft doing chemotherapy and working from home more. You’d thought that perhaps there would be more time for nice moments between you because of such a thing, but if anything there’s been less. Quite often you've discovered that between the hours of six in the morning, though sometimes earlier, and anything up to eight o' clock at night, Mycroft can be found sitting at the kitchen table, tapping away on his laptop or making argumentative phone calls. You've learnt not to disrupt him too much during these times. But it’s not as if you haven’t been kept busy yourself. You've found that Mycroft seems to be using up more clothes now that he’s at home, so the amount of washing that needs doing has been increased. Whilst, despite your husband’s chronic tidiness, you've found that there’s always something that needs to be done around the flat. Every night, instead of touching or cuddling each other, which you've both seemed too tired to do, you've just opted for slumping hazily in front of the TV, before going to bed, or taking phone calls from family and friends, all of whom seem to want regular updates about how you’re getting on. Coming out of your thought you reply, “I don’t know, a few weeks ago maybe?” when you find that he’s still looking at you. 

 

He lets out a little sigh and carefully brushes the back of his hand against your hair. “I'm concerned about you”-

 

“I'm fine,” you interrupt, running a finger down his side, before you grasp on to it lightly. Your eyes meet. Mycroft stares at you maddeningly. “Fine, I'm a little tired I admit, but”-

 

“You haven’t been taking care of yourself,” Mycroft announces firmly. 

 

You let out a little sigh, knowing that it’s true. You've lost a little weight from the fact that you often find yourself, especially after chemotherapy days, just eating whatever’s left of the food that Mycroft hasn’t managed to get down him. You’re more than just a bit tired too, from running around cleaning the flat, nagging Mycroft to drink enough, so that he doesn’t dehydrate, making sure that he uses Vaseline on his lips as often as possible to stop them from drying out, looking after him when he’s sick or carrying out errands for him, meeting Anthea at the office with papers and lugging a load back to the flat. Taking care of your appearance has been right at the bottom of your list. Your hair’s often lank and greasy, whilst bags hang beneath your eyes like a cloud over the sun. You let go of him and roll onto your back. Its been weeks since you've felt vaguely attractive. 

 

Mycroft shuffles closer to you. “How’s the painting coming along?” 

 

You groan inwardly, before you swallow. “It’s nearly there,” you lie. 

 

Mycroft props his head up with his hand and looks at you. “Really?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. You swallow again. “Only, you may have think its escaped me, but the fact that you've been doing more cleaning of the flat recently than you have spending time in the spare room hasn’t.”

 

“There’s always so much dust everywhere,” you complain, “I just want to”-

 

_“F/N”-_

 

“I don’t want you to get an infection,” you blurt out. 

 

A silence hangs in the air between you. 

 

“I know,” Mycroft says finally, “But like I said before it’s important that you”-

 

“I’ll get it done,” you say a little tersely. 

 

_“F/N”-_

 

You look at the clock, “I know the deal was that I wouldn't do anything until gone seven, but I’ve got a lot that needs to be done, so”- you break off deliberately and swing out of bed. 

 

For a moment you think that he’s going to let you go, but when you’re nearly at the door he calls, “Have you thought about what you’re going to do after I die?”

 

You stiffen, before you swallow. “No,” you tell him, “As you can probably imagine I’d rather not think about it.”

 

“I know,” Mycroft says, and you grudgingly look back to him, “But if you’re not enjoying painting much any more, or if you’re finding it difficult, then perhaps you should really begin to consider a career in something else”-you let out a little breath. Mycroft shifts and fidgets slightly-“There will be enough money left to you of course, to ensure that you won’t have to do anything, not straight away, but I know you. Staying in this flat all day long will drive you mad, especially if you don’t have any inspiration to paint, and my love I-I don’t want you to be that way. I want you to be happy”-

 

“How on earth am I supposed to be happy with you gone?” you blurt out, before you let out a bit of a gasping breath and raise your hands to your mouth. Tears spring to your eyes. Mycroft shifts and makes to get out of bed, but you wave a hand to tell him not to, before you turn and hurry out of the room. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ you hear Mycroft calling a moment later. 

 

You swallow a couple of times and struggle to get yourself together. “Yes?” you say back to him.

 

“C-Can you bring my laptop back, before you carry on with things? I rather think that perhaps staying in bed a while longer is a good idea for me.”

 

You swallow and your heart plummets. Mycroft’s been trying to get up at a decent time when he’s at home and only to work at the table, you suspect in part so that he wouldn't worry you, but as the chemotherapy’s continued he’s started to spend more time working in bed. You can’t help feel concerned and a cold kind of fear clenches at your stomach, but you make to do as he’s asked any way. You can’t know that the reason he’s decided not to push himself into getting out of bed right now is because what with you acting the way you are, he knows that, in spite of how much he doesn’t want to, he should really, for your own benefit if nothing else, be a little more honest about how ill, and more to the point, how _tired_ he actually feels right now. 

 

He can tell you’re getting the point by how you avoid his eyes as you carry the laptop back around to him. You pass it to him gingerly. “Can I get you anything else?” you ask, “Something to eat or”-

 

Mycroft keeps one hand to steady the laptop, but he lets the other one curl around your wrist. “No, but you could do something for me,” he states. You look at him tentatively. “You could try and look after yourself more”-

 

“I need to look after _you,”_ you interrupt, still both sounding and looking teary.

 

“Yes, but I need you to be well,” Mycroft replies carefully, looking into your eyes, before he clarifies, "I need to know that you're going to be all right after I'm gone." But when you let out a sigh and bow your head he goes on, “Instead of looking for dust, why don’t you take some time for yourself today? Paint a little if you feel like it or go for a walk?” 

 

Your lips shift uncertainly against each other. “Maybe later,” you decide, pulling away from him. 

 

Mycroft sighs.

 

Of course later never comes, and you find yourself staring blankly at the shelves in the local shop trying to remember whether you need baked beans or if you've got enough. After Mycroft’s constant attempts throughout the day to make you do something different you’d ended up just running out to the shop in the end, without even making a list. You've just reached out a hand to grab the beans after all and add it to the basket you’re carrying when you hear Molly’s voice and the soft fall of her footsteps. Your hand jerks backwards. 

 

“Oh F/N, I thought it was you,” she says, turning you towards her and no doubt studying your limp hair, which hangs lifelessly about your face. “How are you?”

 

You blink a little and shift your position in order to try and maintain some semblance of actually being awake. “Oh,” you say, tousling your hair with your free hand, “Well, Mycroft’s been in bed more lately, he’s clearly feeling tired, which is concerning, but he had some tests done last week, so I guess we’ll have to wait and see what they tell us.”

 

She looks at you and it takes you a moment to realize that her gaze is a sympathetic one. “No,” she says, patting at your arm, “I meant how are _you?_ Not how Mycroft is.” You look at her blankly. “Are you getting enough time for yourself?” she elaborates. 

 

“Oh,” you say once you realize what she means, “Well my Mum’s started coming around every other weekend, whilst Mycroft’s parents come around on most, so I usually get a bit of time to myself then, enough for a cup of tea and perhaps a quick flick through of a magazine or”-

 

“F/N,” she says rubbing at your arm, “You need more than time for tea and a magazine when you’re not trying to make a good impression on Mycroft’s parents. You need some proper time away from all this”-

 

“Tell that to the cancer,” you mutter. 

 

“Have you thought about getting someone in?”-

 

You shake your head, “No, Mycroft and I, we’re fine, we don’t need”-

 

“F/N, you look dead on your feet. At this rate you’ll be in an early grave quicker than Mycroft will”- you wear a stricken look, and your basket drops with a thud to the floor as tears well up in your eyes-“Oh God F/N, I didn't mean, I just”- she breaks off and pulls you into her arms-“I just think that you need help. You can’t keep doing this. If you want Greg and I to look after him for a while, whilst you”- you shake your head against her shoulder. 

 

“I just-I just want things to get better and for them to be like how they were, but they’re never going to”-

 

“Oh sweetie, I know you do,” she coos, cupping at your hair, “I tell you what,” she breathes, rubbing at your back. You pull your head away from her a little, whilst spit clings to your lips. “We’re going to finish getting what you need from here and then I'm going to go back with you to your flat. We can try and figure things out more from there.” You nod and she squeezes at your arm. 

 

You spend a little bit longer at the shop and then the pair of you companionably make your way back to the flat. 

 

You've just come in sight of it when you stop. Your stomach lurches. There’s a black car parked just outside the flat, and, standing behind it, looking pale, wearing a suit that looks as if its been put on sloppily and leaning hard against his umbrella is Mycroft. 

 

You exchange an anxious look with Molly, before you rush across the road and hurry up to him. You should never have left him, that’s what you can’t help feel. 

 

“F/N,” he says, as your arm goes around him to support him, “Where have you been? I tried calling you”-

 

Your hand darts automatically inside your pocket to find that your phone’s somehow gone to vibrate mode rather than making a sound when it goes off. “Sorry,” you apologize, “I must have”- you break off and look at the car, “What’s going on?”

 

He shifts his position and leans against you a little more heavily. He acknowledges Molly with a nod of his head, before he looks down at you again. His eyes seem paler somehow, washed out. “The scan results came through. Tom wants us to meet him at the clinic. I told him we’d be there as soon as possible.”

 

Your mouth opens, before you realize that you’re holding shopping in your free hand. “Shopping,” you blurt out.

 

You feel someone tugging the shopping away from you. You awkwardly half-turn around to see Molly adding it to her own load. “It’s all right,” she tells you, “If you just give me the key then I’ll put it away and lock up again after I leave. I can pop the key back through the letterbox.”

 

You nod at her gratefully, before you assist Mycroft into the car. 

 

Molly stands there on the pavement, watching you both go. 

 

*

 

All too soon Mycroft and you find yourselves shuffling into Tom Harvard’s office, before you sit down. You both feel tired and tense about what you might be about to hear. 

 

You can’t help but think that it must be bad news though, especially since you've been called out on a Saturday. That’s not to mention the fact that Tom looks incredibly serious. In fact if you’d been drawing him in that moment then his face would be entirely comprised of a bunch of tight lines. “I received your scan results,” he begins, “They’re not good I'm afraid”- you grasp tightly onto Mycroft’s hand, which twitches slightly beneath yours-“They show that the cancer is still growing and spreading despite our attempts at chemotherapy”-

 

“Then just increase the dosage,” you suggest, as if it should be obvious. 

 

Tom’s eyes flick to yours after looking at Mycroft, who gives him a bit of a nod. Then they return to your husband’s again. “I'm afraid that after a complete analysis of the scans and a discussion amongst the team, taking in what we already know about your case, its been decided that the best thing would be to stop all treatment”-

 

“No!” you utter, getting to your feet and ignoring Mycroft who tries to take your hand. Tom opens his mouth. “You can’t give up!” You take a breath. “You’re telling me that you've dragged us all the way here, when my husband is weak and frail, just to tell us that? To rid him of all hope? Just because you've decided, probably because of cost reasons, that you can’t be bothered to treat him any more”-

 

 _“F/N,”_ Mycroft breathes heavily. 

 

You round on him. “No,” you say, pointing a finger at him, “We are not there yet. We’re not. I'm not saying goodbye to you”-

 

“F/N, take a seat please,” Mycroft says, and it’s only because of the fact that his words come out wheezily that you find yourself obeying him. “We've known, for a very long time now, what the end of this would be, despite the fact that we've been trying to do our best to avoid it,” he says once you’re seated. He twists around to face you and takes your hands in his. “Also, despite the fact that I’ve been trying not to, I can’t escape what my body’s telling me, which is that I’d be quite happy spending all day, every day, in bed.” He pauses and gives you a resigned half-smile. “I'm tired my love, it’s time”-

 

“No, _no,”_ you say, shaking your head with tears in your eyes. You tug your hands away from him and stand up. “Don’t you dare give up on yourself! We haven’t been fighting this far for you to”-

 

“I'm _tired,”_ Mycroft says emphatically, looking at you out of pleading eyes. 

 

You raise your hands to your lips, before you rush out of the room with a choked sob. 

 

Mycroft hobbles out after you a moment later to find that you’re standing in the hallway, trembling. You turn around and he gives you a bit of a forced smile, before he places the hand, which is not tightly fisted around his umbrella, upon your shoulder. For a moment you just let him guide you into him as you let out splutters of breath. You draw back from him and clutch onto his arms as he murmurs, “This is not me giving up. But you've been the one, telling me all this time that I should be more aware and appreciative of what’s going on with me. That I should slow down, and this is me recognizing that and saying that at the rate I'm going one more dose of chemotherapy could very well be the end of me”-you shake your head and he brushes at your hair briefly, before his hand claws onto your shoulder again-“I won’t work any more, or send you on any more foolish errands to the office. I'm killing us both, and I won’t do it. I want to spend the rest of whatever time I have left with you, enjoying ourselves the best we can in the flat.” Slowly your breaths calm down and you nod. 

 

*

 

Once you get home you escort a tired Mycroft to bed and help him to change into his pyjamas, before you go and check that Molly’s put everything away and attempt to decide what to have for dinner. 

 

 _“F/N?”_ Mycroft calls when you’re peering into the freezer. 

 

“I’ll be there in a moment,” you reply, trying to decide whether Mycroft’s stomach might be able to handle some pasta. In the end, because it’s a microwave meal and you can’t be bothered to cook, you decide to take it to the bedroom and see what he thinks. 

 

He gestures for you to bring it to him and then scrutinizes it for a moment, before he nods and looks up at you. “With cheese?”

 

You frown for a moment, weighing up the options. It probably won’t be good for Mycroft to have too much cheese, but at the same time the fact that he’s still showing an interest in food is a good thing, you can’t deny. “A little,” you compromise. 

 

“With perhaps a little bit of basil and some of those baby cherry tomatoes that you bought last week?” he asks hopefully. 

 

You eye him, wondering if he’s suggesting such a thing more for your sake than for his. “Are you sure that your stomach will be able to handle it all?” you ask. 

 

“Well, if you put it in a bowl for us both to share”- he breaks off deliberately. 

 

“All right,” you smile, “A big bowl of carbs it is.” He leans back against the upright pillow, looking relieved. “But, whilst I'm sorting that out don’t think that you won’t be doing anything important Mr.” He looks at you questioningly, before his face clears with understanding when you add, “It’s high time that we had a DVD night.” You twist around, before you lift up a box of DVD’s out from underneath the bed onto the duvet. “You can sort out the entertainment,” you tell him.

 

Mycroft smiles a little at you, looking pleased by the thought and encouraged, but you feel a sob rising to your throat just at the gesture, so you only give him a vague semblance of one in return, before you hurry out of the room. 

 

You go across to the counter, slide the microwave meal out of its box and take a vindictive amount of pleasure in stabbing the seal of it with a fork, before you shove it into the microwave. After pressing the buttons you just watch it rotate, feeling a little soothed by it, before your emotion bursts inside you once more and you lean against the counter, trying hard not to cry. You feel so ravaged with everything. You’d woken up that morning and sure you’d been tired and a little annoyed with Mycroft for waking you up so early, but you’d been prepared to keep putting one foot in front of the other, and to keep plodding along, because what other option was there? Not only that, but you’d felt sure that if you kept doing such a thing, kept the flat clean, looked after him as much as possible, whilst in turn he kept taking chemotherapy, no matter how much it affected him, that somehow he’d just be able to keep going, keep living and start to surprise the doctors and everyone else. Maybe they’d even realize that it wasn't as bad as they’d first thought, and Mycroft and you could then have several happier months together. But now, now that you've had this dreadful news and there’s not even a fraction of hope and it’s all happening so quickly, you genuinely don’t know if you can just keep everything going at the same standard. Quite frankly, aside from looking after Mycroft, you’re almost prepared to let everything else go to hell right now, that’s the way you feel. Silent tears escape you, but when a loud gasping cry erupts from you, you cover your mouth up quickly. 

 

“F/N?” Mycroft asks, “Is everything”-

 

“Y-Yeah,” you call back, “Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be there.” You swipe your tears away.

 

When you don’t hear him say anything else you think that he’s satisfied by your response, so you go back to trying to get yourself under control and to making yourself look more presentable for when you return to the bedroom. The microwave has just pinged when you feel your phone buzz in your pocket. You take the pasta out and let it stand for a moment, before you pop it back in, for its second round of cooking. 

 

Whilst that’s doing that you check your phone. _F/N, I hope that things went all right at the clinic today, but if you need to talk then please ring me. Don’t keep it all inside. Molly._

 

You let out a loud sniff, before you press to call Molly and raise your phone to your ear with a trembling hand. Your eyes dart worriedly to the bedroom door, but thank goodness everything seems silent and still. 

 

 _“F/N,”_ Molly breathes as soon as she picks up. 

 

“T-They’re stopping the chemotherapy,” you announce in a loud, but strangled tone without being able to help it.

 

“Oh God, F/N I”-

 

“W-Will you tell Greg, John, Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock? I’ll have to tell M-Mycroft’s parents, and my Mum, but I-I just can’t bear telling everyone myself”-

 

“Of course, of course I will F/N,” Molly interrupts you in a soothing voice, before she asks, “How’s Mycroft?” 

 

“Trying to be strong about it, for me I think,” you say, smiling in a watery fashion in spite of yourself. Your lips part to say something else, but before they can you become aware of a heavy, wheezing noise, followed by the sight of Mycroft’s gaunter, thinner frame appearing around the bedroom door frame. He stops and just looks at you for a moment, seemingly tired but relieved to actually be seeing you again. Your lips close, part and then close again. “I’ve got to go,” you tell Molly, disconnecting the call without another word. The microwave sounds, but you just ignore it. Instead you slap the phone down upon the counter and rush across to your husband. “Mycroft, what are you doing?” you ask, half of you feeling exasperated, whilst the other half feels like an endless amount of love for him might pour out of you at any given moment. 

 

He pushes himself off the door frame and takes a couple of steps towards you, tottering like a toddler would. “You were upset,” he says, “And I-I'm your husband, it’s my job to”-

 

You close the gap between you and hug him, being careful but squeezing him pretty tightly nonetheless. He lets out a breath and wraps his arms around you. You sob against him, mumbling incoherently, whilst a few stray tears leave Mycroft’s eyes. They run down and drip off the end of his long nose. He hates seeing you this way. Finally you pull away from him and let out a bit of a breath.

 

“It’s true, what I said earlier, I'm tired F/N,” Mycroft starts, holding onto your shoulder tightly with one hand and brushing at your hair with his other, “I can’t pretend that I'm not any more, it’s not healthy for either of us, but I'm not gone yet. I still have a bit of a fight left in me my love. I should think that I’ll still be around here at Christmas.” 

 

You swallow and nod, your eyes watery as you peer up at him. He gives you the most encouraging smile. “You should go back to bed,” you tell him. 

 

The smile half-slips off his face, before he shakes his head. He lets go of you and starts to hobble towards the counter. You hurry after him. “Want to help you with dinner,” he breathes, as you pull one of his arms around your shoulders, so that you can assist him, “I see that you haven’t started getting the tomatoes, basil and cheese ready yet.”

 

You roll your eyes. For a moment, apart from the fact that he’s breathless and you’re helping to keep him upright, the cancer might not be there, and he might just be teasing you again. 

 

You prop him up against the counter and pop the tomatoes close by, so that he can begin to wash them. You put the pasta into a bowl and sprinkle the basil on top of it, before you grate some of the cheese.

 

Mycroft, still washing tomatoes, looks at your quick progress around him and comments wheezily, “Your old husband can’t keep up with you any more.”

 

“My old husband’s doing just fine,” you smile at him, “Although he might want to stop washing those tomatoes, before he drowns them.”

 

Mycroft lets out a breathless kind of chuckle, before he allows you to take the tomatoes from him. You dry them off a little, before you mix them in with everything else. 

 

“We all set?” you say, looking back at Mycroft. 

 

“I think so,” he nods. 

 

You take the bowl of pasta and two forks into the bedroom first, leaving them on top of the bedside cabinet, before you go back to fetch Mycroft. He’s started to make his way back, his stubbornness not allowing him to just wait around for you. You stand by the doorway for a moment and watch him. He’s frowning down at the floor, watching his feet in concentration. You swallow, and feel a pang of something as a memory hits you. A memory of Mycroft and you racing up to the flat after a night out, walking quickly, keen to start your lovemaking. As soon as he’d opened the door you’d begun to hurry across to the bedroom, but you’d turned around to watch as he’d practically thrown his umbrella down into the holder. He’d slid effortlessly across to you and wrapped his arms around you. It had made a giggle burst from your lips, before he’d claimed them with yours. As you look back on the memory now you view yourself as having felt so carefree then, even though you probably hadn’t been entirely so. View Mycroft that way too. But as you come out of the memory and go across to assist your husband the last few steps, you find that, even now, he’s no less of the man you’d fallen in love with. 

 

Five minutes later Mycroft and you find yourselves in bed, in pyjamas with the giant bowl of pasta in between you, whilst _‘Pretty Woman,’_ plays in the background. 

 

“Do you remember when we first watched this together?” you ask him in between savouring another bite. 

 

“Mmm, it’s why I chose it,” Mycroft smiles, “If I remember rightly it was the night when I’d finally plucked up enough courage to ask you out to a restaurant.”

 

You stare at him looking shocked. “The British Government needed courage to ask _me_ out?”

 

“He did,” Mycroft smiles, looking amused, “Then you”-

 

“Then I came to the door, and I was crying, and you must have thought that I was mad because when I asked what was wrong I said”-

 

“You said, ‘Sorry, I'm watching _‘Pretty Woman’_ and I just got to the bit where Richard Gere and Julia Roberts are having that quiet conversation in bed and that always gets to me’”-

 

“Exactly, and you very sweetly said that you’d never seen the film, but you’d be interested in watching something that was having such an emotional effect on me, rather than coming out with why you were actually there”-

 

“Or rather than saying that I was having second thoughts”-

 

You nudge at him with a smile, “Yes, and then we sat down together and I ran you through what had happened so far, before I resumed it.”

 

“I spent most of the rest of the film just watching your reaction to it,” Mycroft breathes, and he’s not eating the pasta any more, instead his eyes are just fixing on you. 

 

“And at the end”-

 

“At the end you looked at me and I said that if you were feeling peckish then I’d gladly accompany you to a restaurant because I’d eaten precious little myself. You looked shocked”-

 

“I _was_ shocked. Up until that point I’d just assumed that you’d come around to perhaps get me to talk to your brother or something. But suddenly it was like this door that I’d always wanted to go through was opening up to me. You took my silence to mean that I”-

 

“Wasn't interested. I was terrified because of the age difference that you might take it the wrong way and think I was a pervert or something”-

 

“But I quickly corrected you and told you that I’d be very happy to go with you”-

 

“And the rest, as they say, is”-

 

 _“History,”_ you breathe, closing your eyes as you reminisce about how wonderful and exhilarating that whole evening had been. Mycroft had taken you to a classy restaurant where you’d laughed and talked and found out that you actually had more in common than you’d ever thought. You’d been surprised when, at the end of the evening he’d not only walked you back to 221C, but leaned in for a chaste kiss too. You’d kissed him back eagerly once you’d realized what was going on. There had been stars in the sky and butterflies churning in your stomach. “We were such idiots back then,” you say with a smile as you open your eyes. “Do you remember how long it even took for us to get to that point? God knows how many nights I’d spent agonizing over our short little conversations and wondering what you meant by each word and about what on earth was going on through your mind.”

 

Mycroft chuckles softly. “I'm dying and we’re sitting here in our pyjamas eating a big bowl of pasta, I think we’re still idiots.”

 

You grin for a moment, before your smile becomes a sad, pained one. “No death talk tonight,” you murmur, tapping at his hand. 

 

“All right,” Mycroft nods in agreement, before his hand darts into the bowl to make a grab for the last baby cherry tomato. 

 

 _“Myc!”_ you utter, before you can’t help but laugh at the triumphant way that he pops it into his mouth. 

 

He laughs too, albeit in a breathless kind of way, but the sound of it is pleasing to you nonetheless. 

 

Mycroft and you finish watching the film, before you watch some rubbish on TV.

 

“Time for sleep?” you ask once you lift your head up off Mycroft’s chest to see that his eyes are half-closed and he’s almost nodding off to sleep. 

 

You’re ready to switch the TV off and snuggle down in bed properly, but to your surprise he shakes his head. “No,” he says as your lips part, “I want to see your painting.”

 

“Like I said earlier it’s not finished,” you remind him, looking at him curiously. 

 

“Then perhaps, if you’d let me, I could help you finish it?” Mycroft suggests, and you notice that his eyes only scrape against yours for a moment, before they look away again. 

 

“Okay,” you breathe, and Mycroft looks more reassured. 

 

A few moments later, after helping him into his dressing gown, you guide him into the spare room. You sit him down on the stool you sometimes use as you paint, before you let out a little breath and go towards the centre easel, clenching and unclenching your fists on the way. “It’s not finished,” you say, turning back to him. 

 

He looks amused by your melodramatics. “I'm not expecting it to be,” he tells you with a gentle nod. 

 

You nod at him a little falteringly, before you turn back to the canvas and slowly tug the white, paint-splattered sheet off it. 

 

You hear Mycroft letting out a little breath. You turn back around. You allow him to stare at it for a moment. At the outline of both of your faces, which you've just started to paint more detail into, and at the beginning of the inky black sky and stars in one prominent corner of the background, whilst the dark shape of London buildings take up the rest. Finally you ask him, “What do you think?” 

 

“It’s beautiful F/N,” Mycroft tells you as you shift your position, “By far my favourite one you've ever done.”

 

You smile without being able to help it, and you feel a soaring of something rise up within your heart. You go across and kiss him on the cheek, looking pleased as you pull back from him. 

 

“Perhaps I could help you with the background, once you've finished our faces?” he asks. 

 

“Okay,” you nod, “But not tonight, you’re tired, you need to rest.”

 

Again Mycroft stubbornly shakes his head. “I want to do it tonight,” he says. 

 

You stare at him, but he’s got that look on his face-determined eyes and a tight mouth-and you know that you’ll only be fighting a losing battle if you go against him. “Okay,” you tell him, “But if you start to feel cold or anything then you’re to tell me, and you’re to stay sitting down until I'm done with my part.”

 

He looks at you, and seeing that there’s to be no arguing with you, he nods. “All right.”

 

Looking more satisfied you turn back to the canvas and begin your preparation. 

 

It takes an hour-and-a-half for you to finish the faces, whilst Mycroft nods off to sleep behind you. He always pretends however that he’s astutely awake whenever you turn around to look at him and make a knowing remark.

 

You wash the brushes that you've used and sort out the paint ready for the background, before you go across and gently escort Mycroft to the canvas. He smiles sleepily at you, before his eyes become significantly more alert as his brain, even at this late hour, switches into work mode. 

 

“The sky needs to be a little more inky and mysterious, would you agree?” you ask. 

 

He nods, a small smile on his face. You prepare the paintbrush for him, before you pass it across, putting the paint near by and within his reach. He bites at his lip. His free hand clutches onto the edge of the canvas for all he’s worth and the hand that’s carrying the paintbrush trembles as it shakily goes towards its destination. You swallow, before you shift closer. “Put your free arm around me instead,” you tell him. He looks at you gratefully. You both shift, so that you’re steadying him, before you wrap your hand on top of the one of his that’s carrying the paintbrush and help guide it to the canvas. Slowly, but together, you finish off the sky and buildings, taking comfort from each other’s presence, before you begin to separately paint the stars. 

 

Mycroft does the last one, making it brighter than all the rest. “You know what that is, don’t you?” he asks, peering down at you with a look that’s somehow both soft and firm upon his face. You have a feeling that you know what he’s going to say, but you shake your head anyway, biting at your lip. “It’s me”-

 

“You’re down there,” you say with a cry, pointing at his face, which is right beside yours. 

 

“I am,” he breathes, turning towards you, “Thanks to you I will always be there, and in other places too. In here”-he places a delicate finger to your temple-“In here”-he lowers his free hand and rests his palm flat against your heart-“I will _always_ be here, but I know that, when I'm gone”-you begin to cry-“When I'm gone,” he repeats more firmly, lifting his hand up so that he can gently begin to brush your tears away, “It might be hard sometimes for you to really feel that way. For you to really see that I'm still around and that some part of me will always be with you, so, if you ever need more of a physical representation then I want you to look at the stars.”

 

Your face is damp and your nose feels all blocked and snotty, but still you can't help but ask, “In the day?” 

 

Something flickers across Mycroft’s face. You sound so needy, and so desperate to hang on to him that it makes him want to provide comfort to you in any way he can, even if he does not necessarily believe what he is saying himself. “Then,” he says, tilting your chin up, “I want you to use your artists eye to see all the beauty that is around you, all the colours, all the flowers that bloom in the spring and summer, the autumn leaves, the first snowfall, the chink of blue in the sky, because that is where I shall be.”

 

You smile, knowing all too well that he’s only saying such things to make you feel better, and not because he believes in such things himself, but somehow it makes you feel happier nonetheless. “Thank you,” you tell him. 

 

He nods and brushes at your hair, before his eyes dart back to the painting, “I’d like it to be in the bedroom.”

 

“I could hang it up,” you suggest, “I’ve got some hooks and things. We could put it on the wall that’s in front of the bed, to the left of the TV, where the painting of the Thames is hanging. We’d be able to see it all the time then.” 

 

“I’d like that very much,” Mycroft agrees, though he both sounds and looks more tired. You know it’s important that he gets some rest, so you escort him to the bathroom so that you can both wash your hands, before you take him back to bed. You go to tidy everything up and prepare for the canvas to be hung up. 

 

Usually you’d wait until everything was dry, but it seems more prudent to get it hung up as quickly as possible so that Mycroft in particular might be able to take some comfort from what he’s just been able to help create. You want him to see that he’s not useless, that he’s still capable of doing things and making you feel better. You’re careful not to smudge or ruin everything in your preparation, before you pop back into the bedroom briefly to remove the old painting and make sure that the hook that’s already in the wall will be enough to support the new one. Once you see that it is you take the old painting back to the spare room and carefully manoeuvre the new one into the bedroom. Mycroft, sitting up in bed, despite the fact that you’d rather he was lying down, watches you intently the whole time.

 

When it’s hung up and you turn back to him he studies it, before he nods appreciatively. “It looks splendid F/N.”

 

You smile, before you pad across and join him. “It does look nice doesn’t it?” you ask, admiring it from your new position. “Though I guess,” you can’t help but go on, “That this means, since you helped me and everything, you won’t be paying me.”

 

A small smile flickers on Mycroft’s face. “There was I thinking that you weren’t after my money Mrs. Holmes.”

 

“Oh, I'm after your money all right. I'm quite looking forward to being filthy rich,” you tease him matter-of-factly, “But until then I’ll be quite happy just to have your love. You know what?" you add, "I would probably never have finished that painting without you.” Mycroft hums happily and does so even more when you pepper his face with kisses. 

 

You pull back from him and he swoops forwards to capture your lips briefly with his, before the both of you let out a little sigh. You smile at one another, feeling oddly contented despite everything, before you both take one last look at the painting. 

 

*

 

You end up appreciating at that time just how amazing your friends really are. As soon as everyone hears about the chemotherapy being stopped Molly, Greg and John all take turns in coming over to help you with Mycroft, knowing that you don’t want a nurse or carer and trying to give you a bit of a break to allow you to go to the park or the bookshop. Mrs. Hudson makes sure to ring frequently. 

 

*

 

One day-in mid-December-Molly’s helping you with a bit of housework when there comes a knock upon the door. Your first reaction is to look at her, but she just shrugs. Clearly she’s not expecting Greg. You head across to open it. 

 

Sherlock strides in. “Ah Molly, I'm sure that F/N’s grateful for whatever you've been helping her with, but you can leave now”-

 

“Excuse me Sherlock?” you cry, closing the door, “You can’t just come in here and demand that Molly leaves.”

 

Sherlock looks at you. “I wish to see my brother, and I have no desire for any one aside from you to be present, whilst I do so.”

 

You open your mouth-

 

“It’s all right F/N,” Molly murmurs resignedly, “I’ll go.” She gathers up her things, pecks you on the cheek, squeezes at your arm and leaves. 

 

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” you round on Sherlock, “I’ve barely seen you since September. Then I got the impression that you were going to be there for us, for your _brother,_ but that hasn’t come true in the slightest. Now you come around here”-

 

“Yes, well, I'm here now, and I want to see Mycroft,” Sherlock says abruptly. You wave him through to the bedroom in an annoyed fashion. 

 

He glances at you, before he leads the way. You glare daggers at his back as you follow him. 

 

“Sherlock,” Mycroft breathes in acknowledgement from where he’s sitting up in bed. “Thought I heard you.” 

 

Sherlock nods at him and drags a chair across to the bed. “Thirty-one days,” is all he says as he sits down.

 

“Is that all?” Mycroft enquires breezily, “I’d rather been hoping for more around the hundred-mark, but one month’s better than none I suppose.”

 

Your mouth drops open in horror when you realize what they’re going on about as you stand by the entranceway. “No,” you blurt out, moving forwards and pointing a finger at the both of them. “You are _not_ still talking so lightly about this.” They both look at you like they don’t even realize that they've done anything wrong. To them they haven’t, they’re simply re-uniting with each other in the only way they know how. But their flippancy makes you so mad that you let out a sound of irritation, before you storm off into the spare bedroom. 

 

You haven’t been in there since the night Mycroft and you finished the painting, and you find that the sudden sight of your work, some half-complete, others finished, makes you angry. Before you know what you’re doing you’re pulling the canvases off the wall and kicking the ones leaning against it down. You feel a vindictive thrill of pleasure in creating such chaos, and like you’re finally getting your own back a little on all the harm the world’s wreaked upon Mycroft. 

 

You've got your back to the door and you’re standing amongst the centre of the sea of canvases, kicking out at the one of the gazebo, which Mycroft had said that he liked all those months ago, when you suddenly feel a pair of hands on your shoulders, pulling you back. You resist automatically, trying to fight, but-

 

“F/N, F/N it’s all right”-

 

“No it’s not, it’s not,” you say, turning to face Sherlock, “He’s _dying!”_ a sob erupts from you, “He’s dying! And you’re not”- you hit him on his shoulder-“You’re not helping”-

 

“I'm sorry,” Sherlock says into your ear. He pulls you close despite all of your attempts to resist him, before he half-cradles you as your knees sag towards the floor. “Is that what you want to hear? That I'm sorry for being a rubbish brother to Mycroft and a poor friend to you?”

 

You stagger clumsily upright and push him away from you. “You can’t-you can’t give me anything I want right now, so don’t even try,” you pant, barely looking at him, before you make your way from the room. 

 

You head instinctively back towards Mycroft, even though, quite frankly you’re beginning to feel annoyed with the way you’d just behaved. He’s sitting up in bed. He eyes you in relief when you appear by the door. You stay there for a moment, half-hugging the door frame.

 

“I wish you hadn’t destroyed them,” he says.

 

“I know, sorry,” you say, your voice heavy and your shoulders slumping a little. 

 

“But I am glad that you took it out on them rather than yourself if you had to take it out on anything,” Mycroft concludes matter-of-factly. He gestures for you to join him. 

 

You go across, intending at first, what with Sherlock there and everything, to just take up the seat by the bed, but then you’re flipping the duvet cover back, slipping off your shoes and getting into bed beside him. You’re asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow. 

 

Sherlock pads into the room a moment later. He hesitates by the doorway for a moment, watching the tender expression of love and light fill Mycroft’s face as he peers down at you. His hand, a little undecided, goes to brush at your hair. Sherlock clears his throat and takes a step forwards. Mycroft frowns, withdraws his hand and looks at him. “She’s exhausted,” Sherlock nods at you. 

 

Mycroft glances back at you, still with that frown upon his face, before his eyes return to his brother. “Yes,” he murmurs, “That’s rather my doing I'm afraid.” He looks at you. “I think you should leave now Sherlock.”

 

Sherlock hesitates. His brother looks back at him. “Is she?”-

 

“She’s with me,” Mycroft says, cupping a hand protectively around your hair, “She’ll be fine.”

 

Sherlock nods and takes his leave, casting you one last look as he does so. 

 

Mycroft frowns at the spot where his brother had been, before he shifts down beside you. 

 

*

 

When you wake it’s to the feel of Mycroft’s fingers lightly working their way through your hair. His eyes bore into yours as you smile sleepily at him. “What time is it?” you mumble. 

 

Mycroft’s eyes flick to the clock behind you. “Getting closer to dinner time”- you make to sit up, but he places a hand on your waist, restraining you-“Wait,” he murmurs, his voice croaky. You look at him concernedly, but you soon feel a little reassured when he swipes the soft pad of his thumb against your cheek. “You've had quite an effect on my brother,” he announces, stopping his movements. Your lips part, but before you can say a word he says, “He likes you.”

 

 _“Really?”_ you enquire, “I was under the impression that he thought me someone worthy of being dismissive of and that he’s of the opinion that I’ve been over-reacting to everything right from the start, but if you say he likes me, then…” you give him a bit of a shrug and a smile and attempt to sit up again, but once more Mycroft keeps his hand on you. 

 

“No, I mean he _likes_ you,” Mycroft attempts. 

 

“So you keep saying,” you reply, trying to push his hand off you. 

 

“In a romantic fashion.”

 

You stop what you’re doing and look up at him. _“What?_ Myc I really don’t think”-

 

“You don’t see it?” Mycroft asks, tilting his head, “But then again,” he reasons, “You didn't see the way that he looked when you stormed off, or the way that he hardly needed any encouraging to go after you.”

 

“That must have just been because he was feeling bad,” you say dismissively. 

 

_“Oh?_ I was of the opinion that my brother rarely feels bad about anything he says to anyone,” Mycroft goes on, but when you pull a bit of a face he adds, “If you need convincing then just watch how he behaves from now on. If I know him right at this moment he’ll be in his mind palace, mulling it all over. The way you looked so angry will be playing there over and over again. He won’t know what to do about it. He’ll spend the rest of the night snapping at Dr. Watson and being irritable. Then, with his mind made up, he’ll decide that he wants to make himself more useful.”

 

Once more you pull a bit of a face. You’ll be glad if Sherlock finally decides to make himself more useful, yes. But the snarky side of you can’t help but think that it’s a bit late for him to do so now, even though you know that Mycroft wouldn't like you thinking such a thing. Another side of you meanwhile tries to come to terms with this new possibility that Mycroft has presented to you. “I don’t know about all that,” you say uncertainly.

 

Mycroft stares at you knowingly for a moment. A small smile dances around his face. “Even someone like Sherlock can’t have been foolish enough to not take note of all your attractive qualities. In fact, I think that someone like him, who is close, but not quite at my level of intelligence of course”-

 

“Of _course,”_ you cut in, your lips quirking upward.

 

Mycroft smiles, and his hand darts underneath your top so that he can rub at your side. “Well, I think that he’s probably noticed such things even more.” He pauses. “He was wrong though,” he adds. 

 

“About what?” you enquire, sensing a more serious edge to the conversation and feeling a little tentative because of it. 

 

“About how many days I have left,” Mycroft goes on, his hand stilling on your side, “Either that or he was being kinder because you were present.”

 

Your heart skips a beat. “Myc”-

 

“By my reckoning I have just over twenty, perhaps twenty-three or twenty-four days if I am lucky”-

 

“Myc don’t, _please,_ I don’t want to”-

 

“F/N, I love you, but if going through this cancer with you has taught me anything then it’s that we are both utter failures in facing up to the worst-case scenario,” he huffs out. You swallow. “My dear, we _must,_ in these last days start embracing the inevitable unless we are to face regrets. I do not have long left, and it is my belief that it would be wise now, whilst I am still vocal and in my right mind, to say goodbye early”-

 

“I”-

 

He raises a hand and presses a finger to your lips. “If you could,” he murmurs, “I’d appreciate it if you were to arrange for my parents, Molly, Gregory and Dr. Watson to come over this weekend. You could also invite my brother, though, as I have stated, I get the feeling that I’ll be seeing him again.” A wry smile plays about his lips as he lowers his hand from you. 

 

You swallow and think about it all for a moment, toying with the collar of his pyjama jacket. “My mother,” you say as you finally look up at him, “She’ll want to say goodbye to you too.”

 

Mycroft nods. “Then invite her too.”

 

*

 

Mycroft wasn't wrong about Sherlock. He comes over every day, sometimes just to sit and talk quietly with his brother, other times to help you with chores around the flat. Sometimes he magically appears with shopping for you, at the exact time you’d needed such a thing. He’s trying, he really is, and though you’re still unable to believe that he might be doing it all because he feels something for you romantically, you’re grateful and appreciative of him all the same. 

 

*

 

The weekend dawns, and you watch from the kitchen table as one by one a stream of visitors file into the bedroom and depart again. 

 

John goes first, and you watch him with a heavy, sinking heart.

 

“I don’t know why we can’t do all this on different days,” Mycroft’s mother complains with a loud sniff from where she’s taken over the settee with her husband. “We’re his parents, family should be kept separately from friends.”

 

You stiffen a little and your mother looks at you concernedly from where she’s sitting opposite you. She reaches for your hand, but you withdraw it from where it had been curled around your cup of tea at the last moment. 

 

“Mycroft wanted everyone together,” you call across, “I think he just wanted it all done in one day, he’s tired enough as it is”-

 

“Yes, well,” Violet returns haughtily, “I expect he’ll only be more tired from thinking of what to say to everyone. That’s why all this should have taken place over several days; that way he could have reserved some of his energy. You should have told him that,” she says, peering around at you. You find that you have to bite down on your lip very hard as you meet her gaze. 

 

“Mycroft wanted”- you begin stumblingly. 

 

“I think it’s more the fact that _you_ wanted,” Violet begins, before she huffs, “Why his wife should take precedence and spend his last days with him when I, as his mother, and the one who brought him into this very world in the first place, has to say goodbye goodness knows how many days early, _and_ before Christmas too, is”-

 

“That’s enough,” your mother interrupts, standing up. 

 

“Mum,” you plead.

 

But her gaze is fixed upon Violet, and her finger points in her direction as she goes on, “My daughter’s going through hell because of this. You have no right to accuse her of feeling anything otherwise or of playing games. If your son has decided that he wants to say goodbye to everyone now, then you of all people, being his mother, should be respecting that.”

 

Violet stands up, and for a moment the two women just stare daggers at one another. 

 

“Mum, _please,”_ you beg, really not wanting a fight to break out, not now of all days.

 

Thankfully Father Holmes seems to be of the same opinion. He pulls his wife back down into a sitting position. Your mum sits down a moment later.

 

You cast her a bit of a dark look. “I don’t know why you had to rise to that,” you tell her.

 

“F/N, she was trying to besmirch your name and your relationship with”-

 

“I didn't like it either, but at the end of the day it’s just the emotions she’s feeling from the fact that her son’s dying from cancer talking and making her say all that,” you interrupt, trying to get the point across with a maddening stare. Your mother looks at you for a moment. “How would you feel if it was me?” you ask, whilst you inwardly curse yourself for not predicting that something like this might happen in the first place. 

 

Finally your mother swallows and nods. She gets up and goes across to Mycroft’s parents. You watch as she says words that you cannot hear, looking suitably chastised, before finally both mothers hug. You let out a breath of relief. It looks like one crisis has managed to be averted. 

 

Meanwhile, in the bedroom, Mycroft breathes, “I will confide something to you Dr. Watson,” whilst he feels grateful for the bottle of water that you've left him on the bedside cabinet. John raises his eyebrows enquiringly, as if to say, _‘Oh?’_ “My brother is beginning to form a romantic attachment to F/N.” John’s mouth opens, his eyes widen and he pulls a bit of a disbelieving face. “Yes,” Mycroft smiles a little, for John’s reaction has very much reminded him of yours, “It’s a strange thing for one to consider isn't it? But he is yet to properly realize it and I fear that he won’t before the time comes for me to leave. In that case, I would like to ask of you, that if the time comes and he should show signs of fighting it, to most kindly persuade him otherwise”-

 

“Wait,” John says, whilst Mycroft sips at his water, “You want F/N to be with Sherlock? Are you even sure that F/N would be that way inclined?”

 

“I think,” Mycroft breathes, “That when it comes down to it, it might be a good match yes. Although I have some concerns about whether Sherlock can make her truly happy I believe that she is starting to see him in a different light, albeit in a sub-conscious fashion. At the moment it’s because he reminds her of me, and she wants to cling on to any part of me that she can, but in time it will be because he is Sherlock, and not the fact that he is my brother, that will appeal to her.” He drinks some of his water again, eyeing John intently. 

 

John thinks about it all for a moment. “In that case,” he murmurs, “I will try and do anything that I can to help.”

 

“Good,” Mycroft says, “As usual I hope that you will continue to look out for my brother and that you will prove to be a good friend to F/N long after I'm gone.”

 

“I’ll certainly do my best,” John says, standing up. Mycroft nods and watches as the doctor makes to turn. Suddenly however he turns back and says, “Mycroft?” Mycroft hums. John looks awkward and fidgets with his hair. “Um, I know I haven’t always shown that I think this, but, well, you’ve been a good brother to Sherlock, overall, and well, just in case he doesn’t tell you himself I wanted to.”

 

“Most kind,” Mycroft replies, “But I was only doing what I should have.”

 

John nods jerkily. “Goodbye then.”

 

“Goodbye Dr. Watson.”

 

Greg and Molly’s visits are considerably shorter, with Mycroft just telling the pair of them to look out for both his brother and you, along with patting Molly awkwardly on the back when she decides, at the last moment, to hug him. 

 

Sherlock goes next, mumbling a little bit as he enters about it being a waste of his valuable time since he’ll be seeing his brother again after that day.

 

“Yes, it’s not exactly one of my desires to risk repeating myself to you either,” Mycroft mutters, adjusting his position and sitting up straighter in bed.

 

“Can I go then?”- Sherlock asks, pointing to the door. 

 

Mycroft shakes his head. “I want to make a few things clear to you,” he says as he gestures for Sherlock to come and stand in front of him. Sherlock goes to the foot of the bed reluctantly, his hands in his pockets and his shoulders slouched. “Now Sherlock,” Mycroft begins promptly, “I realize that it’s pointless in me telling you to behave yourself since you have never listened to me in the past and I have no reason to suspect that you will in the future”- Sherlock smirks- _“But”_ -Mycroft says, pointing a finger at him and looking most serious, “You will look after F/N won’t you?” Sherlock takes his hands out of his pockets and nods. “I mean it Sherlock,” Mycroft warns, and Sherlock stands up suddenly straighter, “You are to try and be on your best behaviour around her and mindful of how she is feeling. You are to treat her like she is precious, like she is invaluable, like how you treat your violin. You understand?”

 

“You want me to polish her?” Sherlock pulls a face. 

 

Mycroft frowns, seeing through his brother’s bout of childishness to something more serious. It’s possible that he was wrong and that Sherlock _has_ started to suspect how he might feel for you after all. “No,” he murmurs, “I want you to handle her with care and look after her when she needs it. I am trusting you with her. As a result I fully expect you to be there beside her, supporting her as and when she needs it, not just on the day of my funeral but every day. You can treat me like how you treated Redbeard, but don’t ever do the same to her. You understand?”

 

“If I don’t?” Sherlock pushes. 

 

Mycroft smiles. “Then perhaps I myself will become the east wind dear brother and you shall feel my wrath.”

 

The briefest of smiles crosses Sherlock’s face. “Understood,” he nods. 

 

Your mother is his next visitor. You escort her into the room and up to the bed, before she gestures that you should go. You look in between her and your husband worriedly for a moment. Mycroft gives you the kindest and most reassuring smile that he can, before you take your leave. 

 

“Mrs. L/N,” he begins as soon as you’re gone, “It is to you that I owe the most sincerest of apologies”-your mother looks at him in astonishment-“I have not been able to provide your daughter with a happily ever after for the rest of her life, nor have I always, in these past few months, and indeed, in all the time that I have known her, treated her with the respect and love that she deserves. It is my hope that you will be able to forgive me. I am but a mere foolish man fighting against my passing.”

 

She swipes her thumb across his hand in a gesture that reminds him of you, before she sniffs a little. “You may not have been the perfect husband, or been able to stay with my daughter as long as we would have both liked”-she pats at his hand-“But you have given her something so special in the short time that you have been with her, and I-I will never be able to repay you for that. She’s been so happy”-

 

“It’s only my regret that she will now, for a short time at least, be sad,” Mycroft murmurs. 

 

Your mother can’t reply to that. She just gives him a tight smile and brushes her lips against his cheek. She whispers a soft, “Thank you,” before she leaves. 

 

Mycroft’s own parents are next. Mummy comes in, already sobbing noisily into her handkerchief with Father guiding her inside. For a moment both parents just go either side of the bed and hug their son, before Mummy takes the chair and Father moves to stand close by her. 

 

“Oh Mykie,” Mummy murmurs, clutching at her son’s hand for all that she’s worth. 

 

“I'm fine Mummy. You’re just tucking me up in bed that’s all, and this is just goodnight,” Mycroft says, squeezing at her hand. 

 

“Silly boy,” she mutters, dabbing at her eyes, but Mycroft’s pleased to see that there’s a bit of a smile on her face nonetheless, albeit a watery one. 

 

“I'm sorry that I won’t be around for Sherlock,” he says sincerely, looking in between both of his parents a little downheartedly.

 

“Don’t you worry about Sherlock,” Mummy tells him fervently, patting at his hand, “He’ll be fine.”

 

Mycroft thinks about what might happen between Sherlock and you and he hopes so, for both of your sakes. “I wanted to thank you,” he murmurs as he comes out of his thought, “For everything that you’ve done for me over the years. I know that I haven’t always said it, and that I haven’t always been the easiest of sons, but I'm saying it now.”

 

“You’re such a good boy,” Mummy coos fondly, kissing at his hand, before she cradles it to her cheek “Such a smart, intelligent man.” Father rubs at her shoulder. “We have been blessed to have you as our son, and I-I only wish”-

 

“I know,” Mycroft murmurs, for he does.

 

She sniffs, swoops forwards and places kisses all over Mycroft’s face, causing her son to wriggle in embarrassment for one last time, before she holds him to her for one still, singular moment. Mycroft breathes in the smell that has always comforted him. She let’s go, turns and exits the room with a choked sob. Mycroft looks after her anxiously. 

 

“I'm so proud of you,” Father murmurs, drawing Mycroft’s attention to him, before he grasps at his son’s shoulder, “Proud of the man you’ve become and of everything you’ve achieved.”

 

“Thank you Father,” Mycroft says, before he watches as Father too leaves him. 

 

The last person to visit him, once everyone is gone and the flat is still and silent once more, is you. 

 

You enter the room with a sad, strained smile, before you go across and wrap your arms around him in one quick comforting gesture. You make to sit on the edge of the bed, but Mycroft directs you to the chair. You look at him in puzzlement. “I know, my dear, that we will have days yet, stretched out before us in which we will largely be free to talk. But whilst the mood strikes I wanted to say more of a proper goodbye to you.”

 

You swallow and look as if you’re about to protest, before you change your mind, nod and sit down in the chair. 

 

Mycroft looks at you levelly, before he cups your hand with his. “I could never have imagined,” he murmurs, “When I first met you, that you, as the tenant of 221C, would come to mean so much to me.” You swallow, for already your throat feels tight and tears prick at your eyes. “But you did,” Mycroft smiles, “And I am so very glad that I allowed my heart to open enough for you, because you have taught me things that I never knew were important, inspired me, kept me going and loved me”-he squeezes at your hand-“I have, true to my predictions all those months ago, become a bald, grumpy, weak man in bed”-you let out a watery laugh-“But you have never once showed any signs of wanting to give up or walk away from me, and if you ever thought that I lacked faith in you, especially at the beginning of all this, then perhaps I should make one thing clear. It wasn't that I didn't believe you would stay, it was more that I didn't dare hope you would. I had visions of me wasting away in bed, my spirits low, and my mind cursing the illness that had caused our separation. You never made such images a reality a-and I will never be able to thank you enough for that. Despite knowing that our future would never be the one you had hoped for you never abandoned me. You even married me, _and,_ some day, if I am very lucky you might yet carry my child”-

 

“I will,” you murmur, stroking at his hand and his eyes widen, “I’ve started doing some research into it, just a little, and thinking about things financially, and though I don’t want to be pregnant right now, not with everything, in the future I will be.” You hold his hand to your stomach and let out a watery little laugh. “Close your eyes Mycroft Holmes and picture what our baby will look like. He or she aren't in there yet, but one day”-

 

“A girl, with your hair and eyes, but the shape of her face like mine. She will be intelligent, strong and always right just like her mother”-

 

“A boy,” you murmur, interrupting your husband, “The spitting image of you, with your hair and eyes, always getting into mischief, but he will be”-

 

“She will be”-

 

“So,”

 

 _“Loved,”_ you both finish together, before the pair of you open your eyes and laugh.

 

“What am I really worshipping as the baby in your stomach?” Mycroft enquires, slowly withdrawing his hand.

 

“The cheese sandwich I had for lunch,” you murmur, and you both laugh a little again, tears streaming down your faces and Mycroft’s eyes sparkling with a life inside them that you have not seen for a while. 

 

“I love you,” he says, tangling your hands together. 

 

“I love you,” you tell him, “And I'm never saying goodbye to you so don’t even say it. We’ll meet again”-

 

“Don’t know where, don’t know when,” Mycroft quips.

 

“But we’ll meet again,” you finish, kissing at his hand as you keep your eyes firmly upon his.

 

*

 

Things deteriorate rapidly for Mycroft after that. His appetite fades. Whilst he talks little, and when he does he only speaks words, which will encourage you or make you aware of his affection. He spends most of his days in bed sleeping. He gets hazier each time he wakes.

 

Christmas is a quiet affair. You've put up a couple of decorations in the bedroom, a bit of silver tinsel and a sprig of holly here and there, acting almost like a symbolic celebration of the fact that Mycroft suspected he’d still be around at Christmas and has been proved right, but other than that the flat looks completely normal. 

 

You spend the majority of it sitting in a chair by Mycroft’s bedside, stroking gently at his hand and reading tales of political history and intrigue out loud in a soft tone as he drifts in and out of sleep. Every time he wakes he offers you a broken smile that makes your heart ache. Occasionally his hand will lift up to touch your hair. 

 

You only leave him to receive phone calls from family and friends. You find that you end up crying during each one.

 

* 

 

“It’s like he knew this time,” you confide in Sherlock on the second of January. You’re sitting around the kitchen table, drinking tea, whilst Mycroft’s asleep in bed. “He was practical last time sure, and he didn't want me to make any assumptions about what was going to happen, but overall he seemed so certain that he was going to get better. It was more than him just being strong for me, I know it was, but this time…I mean, even before we were told that the cancer had returned I think he just sensed it was back and what it would mean.”

 

“Maybe he did,” Sherlock murmurs, sipping at his tea, “But then again you’ve been stronger this time too”-you look at him-“You were all over the place the first time, so maybe something inside you sensed it too.”

 

“Mm maybe, but it was such a shock the first time. I was obviously hoping that it hadn’t returned this time, but I guess I was more ready for it.” You drink some of your own tea. "As ready as I could be anyway" you add regretfully, before you continue, “Now that he’s said everything to everybody though I can’t help but think it’s like he’s letting himself go. I-sometimes I wish that I’d put him off saying goodbye to everyone for just that little bit longer, so that he might have kept himself going. But how can you tell someone to put something like that off?” You struggle. Sherlock’s hand darts across the table to you so fast to give your hand a quick squeeze, before it withdraws again that you’re left wondering if it really happened. You look at him. 

 

“May I go and see him?” he murmurs, and his blue eyes only scrutinize you for a second, before they look down again. 

 

“Of course,” you reply. He nods, before he rises from his seat. 

 

When Sherlock reaches the bedroom and closes the door softly behind him it’s to find that Mycroft’s sleeping on his back. Sherlock can tell by his slightly rattling breaths that it won’t be long. Part of him wants to run away, but he steels himself and moves forwards. Mycroft’s breaths get louder and snufflier the closer he gets. Sherlock swallows, feeling a little like the Grim Reaper as he stands over him. His brother’s face is pale and almost bloodless. Something dark flickers beneath his eyelids. His lips slightly part. Every now and again it’s like he lets out half-a-breath rather than a full one. Slowly, carefully, Sherlock moves a hand and uses it to brush back the feeble strands of hair that have started to re-grow on Mycroft’s scalp. He delicately hugs his brother, before he slowly pulls his face back. “I won’t be seeing you again brother, so thank you and goodbye”-

 

“Sherlock?” Mycroft says raspily, his eyes flickering hazily open and his frail hand wrapping itself around his brother’s wrist. Pale blue eyes meet with Sherlock’s multi-coloured ones for the last time. For a moment the two brothers just stare at one another, both of their mouths drawn in serious lines, each of them knowing that this will be the last time they will ever see the other. “Look-after-F/N.”

 

“I promise you that I will, and I will not break that promise,” Sherlock replies. 

 

Mycroft’s face floods with relief. “Thank-you,” he breathes through cracked lips. Sherlock offers him some of the water that’s kept in a bottle by his bedside and helps his brother to sit up in a rather slumped position so that he might drink some of it. 

 

He does so sloppily, and when the bottle is returned to the bedside cabinet and Mycroft’s eyes are upon him once more Sherlock hesitates, before he opens his mouth again, “We don’t usually”-

 

“Then why do it now?” Mycroft asks. 

 

“Because,” Sherlock begins, scrunching up his face a little as he struggles, “Because it’s the last”-

 

“I know,” Mycroft breathes, reaching his hand up towards his brother, “Everything that you’re about to tell me, everything that you could ever say, I already know.” Sherlock bends down with a bit of a relieved, breathless smile and Mycroft strokes at his brother’s hair and face with the back of his hand. 

 

All of a sudden the youngest Holmes pushes his head down against Mycroft’s shoulder and it makes the eldest Holmes let out a gasp. Mycroft feels dampness begin to form by the side of his collarbone, and then, suddenly, Sherlock's withdrawing and his face is wet, his eyes swimming with tears. He lets out a choked sort of breath, turns and then hurries out of the room. 

 

You watch in astonishment as Sherlock leaves the bedroom, his eyes averted as he walks quickly, before he grabs his coat and makes for the door. “Sherlock?” you question in alarm, standing up from the table. Your first thought is that Mycroft’s dead, and something turns to ice inside your chest as you hurry towards the bedroom. 

 

“F/N?” you hear a raspy voice say suddenly. You stop in momentary relief, before you hurry towards the entranceway. 

 

“Yes? Oh God, yes, oh God I love you,” you say as soon as you see him, before you go towards him and cup his face in your hands.

 

Mycroft looks up at you understandingly, before he twists his head so that he can kiss at your wrist. “My brother-he-he needs to be-alone. But perhaps you could-you could lie with me?”

 

You nod and flap your hands a little, before you go and get changed. The rest of your tea will have to go cold. Mycroft’s far more important. 

 

Once you’re in your pyjamas and bed you lie with your body turned into his, whilst he lies on his back and gazes at the ceiling. One of his hands holds you to him, whilst one of yours splays against his chest and feels the faint pulsing of his heartbeat underneath. “You knew didn't you?” you ask, thinking about Sherlock. You lift your head up, “What Sherlock’s feelings might become?”

 

“I suspected, yes,” Mycroft breathes. 

 

“And you’re-when it comes down to it you’re all right if”- you break off, your fingers knotting themselves around the middle of Mycroft’s pyjama jacket. “I mean, I don’t know what will happen or even how I would feel if anything _were_ to happen, but if it did? How would you feel about that?” 

 

“You’re-worrying-about-nothing-again,” Mycroft murmurs, “I don’t-like-the idea-of you being-with anybody else, no. But I want-I want you to be happy, whether that’s with-with my brother or someone else, so yes, I'm-all right-with it.” You push your head against his chest and Mycroft strokes clumsily at your hair, whilst you both think hard. “I know you will,” Mycroft finally mumbles, “But you’ll take care of him, and my parents-no matter what-no matter what happens?”

 

You swipe your thumb across his chest, “Of course,” you breathe, “Of course I will.”

 

“Thank you,” Mycroft gurgles, and it’s only when you lift your head up that you catch sight of the single tear that’s running down his cheek. You kiss it away, before you snuggle down against him. 

 

*

 

It happens twenty-one days later after Mycroft and Sherlock had, had the conversation where they’d tried to predict how many days Mycroft would have left. 

 

You wake in the middle of a cold, frosty night going into the fourth of January to find Mycroft staring at you. His eyes aren't hazy, or lost in confusion; instead they’re perfectly fixed on you. It takes you a second to realize that you woke because of him breathing your name. 

 

“F/N,” he murmurs, “It’s time.” He strokes at your hair, savouring the feel of it in between his fingers one last time. 

 

“Oh God,” you blink yourself awake, “Okay, it’s going to be okay Myc,” you cry, curling a hand around his waist. 

 

He smiles at your feeble attempts to comfort him, before his face cracks a little and he whispers, “I'm _scared.”_

 

His confession is enough to send a pang through you. Never has he been more honest with you than in that moment. You shuffle closer to him. Your hand strokes along his side. “D’you-d’you want to hold me or should I hold you?”

 

 _“Both?”_ he suggests, and you can tell that it’s an effort for him to even get that one word out. 

 

You nod, before you both shift closer to one another. As you do he kisses at your shoulder and one of his hands curls around your waist. You wrap your hand around him as you push your head close to his chest. You listen. His heartbeat is faint but still there. 

 

You hold onto each other for the longest of times. “I love you,” you whisper, your ear still against his heart. “I love you and I’ll never stop loving you.” A sob rises in your chest, but you manage to hold it in. 

 

Mycroft strokes at your hair, “I love you too.” He stills and clutches you tight. You listen and listen and listen. Finally your husband croaks, “F/N-thank you.” A moment later he’s gone. 

 

“No,” you breathe, pushing your head against his chest, _“No.”_

 

*

 

Mycroft’s in the park again, standing once more in the clothes he’s always been in. The sky is muted, but not as dark as it had been when the storm had come. Everything looks lighter, like a watercolour painting. He thinks of you and your beautiful pieces of art. His mind wants to find you. Instinctively his feet take him towards the brook. The water is clear, the sound of it gurgling merrily. Mycroft crouches down and cups his hands, ready to drink from it, but then he notices something. He bends closer, peers inside and then right past it. What he sees shocks him. You’re lying there, on the bed in the flat, your body turned as you clutch onto his, sobbing. He sees you as if he’s looking down at you from the ceiling, and he knows then, as he witnesses the whole scene that he’s dead, and that he won’t ever leave this place again. Still his fingers reach towards you nonetheless to try and comfort you, to try and show you that he’s still there, that he can still see you. Yet they only push against the image of you in the water, nothing else. “Brother,” he murmurs, “F/N needs you now.”

 

*

 

Sherlock’s mind has been in an uncomfortable and restless mood all night, but he’s finally managed to fall asleep in the armchair in front of the fireplace. When he wakes he’s not quite certain why he has until a chilly breeze brushes at his ear, despite the stillness in the rest of the room. _Mycroft,_ he thinks instinctively. He hurries out. 

 

Once he reaches your flat he knocks at the door, only to get no answer. 

 

You hear that someone’s there, but you just push all the more insistently towards your husband, burying your nose in his chest and pulling his limp body towards yours, whilst sobs leave your mouth. 

 

A loud bang sounds, but still, though you jump, wracked by grief you don’t have enough common sense to pull away from Mycroft and investigate. 

 

“F/N,” you hear Sherlock say a moment later and your body slumps in relief, “F/N, you have to”- he attempts to pull you back by your shoulders. 

 

“No,” you say, wrenching away from him and moving all the more closer to Mycroft, “No.” 

 

Sherlock steps back, his face pale. “Have you called an ambulance?” You shake your head. “Right, I’ll go do that now.”

 

*

 

Mycroft breathes in relief from where he’s been watching and stands up. You’ll be okay now that Sherlock’s there. His feet carry him across the water and grass towards the trees. Finally he pushes through them and out onto the other side. This is where he belongs. 

 

*

 

When the ambulance arrives you’re still clutching at Mycroft’s body. 

 

“You need to let go,” the female paramedic tells you, reaching towards your shoulders, whilst Sherlock hovers uncertainly in the corner. 

 

 _“No!”_ you cry, “No you can’t take him! He belongs here!” 

 

 _“F/N,”_ Sherlock says, finally stepping forwards. He brushes past the female paramedic and tugs at your shoulders. This time he doesn’t let go of you until you’ve finally released Mycroft and swung away from him. Your face is puffy and tear-stained. “He’s gone now,” Sherlock tells you, as he helps you clamber awkwardly out of bed, “He’s not there any more.” You nod, before you begin to cry all over again. Sherlock holds you to him and you clutch onto him tightly. 

 

*

 

The day of Mycroft’s funeral comes and you wake blearily inside the bed that is now just yours as sunlight pours through the window. You’re not ready yet, but you’ve already decided that in a few weeks, once you’ve got everything more sorted, you’ll attempt to move back into 221C. You need your friends around you, now more than ever, and being alone in this flat, which holds a thousand memories, isn't doing you any good. 

 

Sherlock, Molly and your mother arrive once you’ve dressed. They’ll be escorting you to the funeral today. 

 

The service takes place in a beautiful church. Mycroft had informed you long ago when he was being all business-like about everything that since it was where his parents had married and where they would be buried themselves one day it was where he wanted to be put when the end came. Maybe one day you’ll join him there yourself. You think you’d like that. 

 

Hymns are sung and words are spoken, but you spend most of the service in a daze, with Sherlock’s hand on one of your arms and your mother’s on the other. Your hands fist around the order of service and your bulging eyes spend most of the time staring numbly down at the photo of Mycroft that’s on the front of it. It’s from your wedding day, and although something about Mycroft’s face already looks strained he looks so happy. You let out a loud sniff. Sherlock’s grip tightens on you. You look at him gratefully. He’s been so good to you. Everyone has. 

 

Whilst everyone else has brought flowers to lay across Mycroft’s coffin you’ve brought his umbrella. But when it comes down to it and you’re standing in the cemetery around the grave and everyone’s looking at you, you just can’t.

 

“I’ve lost so much of him already,” you utter, gripping onto Sherlock’s arm with one hand, whilst you clutch onto the umbrella and the order of service with the other. You look up at the consulting detective helplessly. 

 

“Here,” Sherlock says, offering you his own flower instead, “Throw this.”

 

You look at the flower, which is almost the same colour as a goldfish and swallow. Your hand cups around not only it, but Sherlock’s hand too. He looks at you in puzzlement. “We’re in this together,” you remind him. 

 

He nods and shifts to hold your hand, which contains the flower splayed in the centre of your palm underneath his. Together you throw it down upon the coffin. It lands with a soft thunk just underneath the brass plate that says Mycroft’s name. You smile, something about where it landed feels right. 

 

After the burial Mycroft’s parents come up to you, whilst Sherlock and your own mother stay protectively by your side. Father Holmes hugs you briefly, before Violet steps in front of you. “F/N, I wanted to thank you dear and say that I'm sorry”-you look at her in surprise-“I should have trusted that you’d stand by my son right from the start.” Your face softens. “You've been a very good wife to him, and before that you were a very good girlfriend and I should have”- she breaks off. You pull her to you. You hug each other long and hard, both of your throats feeling tight. Your hearts are full of heaviness from everything’s that’s happened. 

 

*

 

“Sherlock,” you say when he’s finished bringing the last box of your things into 221C a few weeks later. He stops from where he’d been about to leave and turns back to you. He moves closer to you once he sees the uncertain look that you’re wearing. Your hands fumble together, “I-I don’t know what you’re expecting from me, what with me moving back in here and everything. I couldn't be any more grateful for everything that you’ve done for me in these past few weeks, but I-I feel like I should tell you, I-I'm not really ready for”-

 

Sherlock takes you in his arms and kisses at your hair. For a moment you think that he’s misunderstood you, but, “I know,” he murmurs, rubbing at your shoulders. You let out a breath of relief, before you look back up at him. “Concentrate on settling back here,” he tells you, “Anything else can be worked out later.” You let out a bit of a gurgly laugh and squeeze him. He smiles at you encouragingly, lets go of you and then leaves the flat. You can almost hear Mycroft telling you that you’re worrying over nothing again. 

 

**Epilogue**

 

 **Six Years Later**

 

“Mum come on! I want to go and see Dad!” 

 

“Careful Myc,” you call warningly to your son-Mycroft Lazarus Holmes-as he ambles along the damp pavement in front of you, one of his hands clinging onto an open black umbrella and the other outstretched as if he’s almost swaying on a tightrope. With his short auburn hair, curious blue eyes and thin lips that are prone to fall into a serious look of contemplation more often than not he’s every inch his father. 

 

“Why don’t you go on ahead?” Sherlock-who’s right beside you and whose got his arm linked with yours-suggests. 

 

“Sherlock,” you mutter as if the man’s a complete idiot and has got no common sense whatsoever, which sometimes you’re pretty sure that he is and he hasn’t. Sometimes you also wonder why you’d married him. “No Myc,” you call out when the little boy begins to speed up, “Don’t listen to your Uncle. Stay where we can see you.” You pause. “Honestly,” you exclaim, turning back to your husband, “I don’t want him getting run over.”

 

Sherlock snorts, “He wouldn't get run over. He’s got more brains than his father or I ever had at that age.”

 

You smile as you note the pride in his voice. Still you can’t help but frown a moment later and add reproachfully, “He’s only five though, and you have to remember that five-year-old's sometimes have the tendency, no matter how smart they might be, to do some silly things. Not unlike your brother and you I might add.”

 

Sherlock’s lips quirk upward and he clutches at your arm tighter. “You might be comparing us to five-year-old's,” he murmurs so that only you can hear, “But you might like to remember that my brother and I have made some stunningly sensible choices too.”

 

 _“Like?”_ you question airily as the church comes into sight, and you can’t help but smile in spite of it. 

 

“Well, we both have the best taste in women,” Sherlock breathes. Your smile only grows. 

 

“All right, I can’t argue with that,” you say, pecking him briefly on the lips. You let go of him as you both move forwards and enter the cemetery. Little Mycroft’s gone on ahead and is now making his way up the path towards his father’s grave, his pink socks are just about visible. They make a nice contrast to the black umbrella that he’s still twirling about. Your face grows more serious as you watch him, and a heaviness that hasn’t quite evaporated when you come to this place forms inside your heart. 

 

“Go on and tell him what you need to,” Sherlock says once he sees the change in your demeanour. He kisses at your hair. “I’ll take care of little Mycroft.”

 

You look at him gratefully and watch as he rushes forwards and picks Mycroft up off the ground, swinging him around and causing the boy to squeal and bat his umbrella towards his uncle’s face. Sherlock dodges the attack, “Come on,” he says a little demandingly. 

 

“But I want to see Daddy!” Mycroft protests. 

 

“Well you can see Daddy,” Sherlock says, placing your son back onto the ground, “But then we’re going to get an ice-cream because your Mummy would quite like to see your Daddy too.”

 

Mycroft’s face brightens predictably at the mention of ice cream, before he pulls a bit of a face at Sherlock’s final words. He clearly decides that it’s better to focus on the matter of the ice cream though when he asks, “Can I get one that’s half-strawberry and half-chocolate?”

 

“Of course,” Sherlock replies, chuckling a little as Mycroft’s face brightens some more, before he rushes around, races up to his father’s grave and wraps his arms tightly around the headstone. 

 

You stop beside Sherlock, watching your son for a moment with a thoughtful expression upon your face. 

 

“You’ll be all right?” Sherlock murmurs, putting an arm around you and kissing at the top of your hair. 

 

You nod. “Yes, thank you for”- you break off and wave a hand at Mycroft who’s hurtling back to you. 

 

“It’s fine,” Sherlock says, rubbing at your shoulder soothingly. “Besides,” he says for your son’s benefit, “I can’t wait to beat Mycroft in our latest experiment”-

 

“Latest experiment?” Mycroft perks up, the freckles on his nose crinkling adorably as he studies his uncle. You roll your eyes. Ever since Mycroft’s been old enough Sherlock’s been roping him into as many experiments as possible. You’re not quite sure, which one of them enjoys it the most. 

 

“Yes,” Sherlock says, crouching down towards the little boy, “It’s to see who can eat their ice-cream the fastest”-

 

“Sherlock he’ll choke,” you protest, “Besides, I know that it’s summer, but it’s not exactly ice cream weather is it?”-

 

“I won’t choke,” Mycroft counters, “Besides, there’s never any reason good enough not to have ice cream. You should know that by now Mummy." You roll your eyes. He’s so much like his father. You watch as Mycroft turns back towards his uncle and says, “I’ll beat you just like Daddy would have.”

 

“Oh will you now?” Sherlock frowns, though he looks rather amused by the prospect. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft boasts, sticking his chest out and twirling his umbrella in between his fingers at the same time. “Mummy said that Daddy and you used to be very competitive, but that mostly Daddy would win.”

 

“Oh did she now?” Sherlock says, looking at you with a raised eyebrow. You gulp, before you offer him a guilty smile. As it happens you _had_ said that. “Well your Mummy should know by now that there are several things I can do better than your father. Like staying alive for one thing.” 

 

 _“Sherlock!”_ you shove him, looking down at Mycroft anxiously. 

 

But the little boy doesn’t seem the least bit concerned about his uncle’s faux-pas. On the contrary he just folds his arms and looks at you both as if the pair of you are behaving quite childishly, before he goes on to ask, “Uncle, when are we getting ice cream?”

 

“Right now,” Sherlock promises, looking down, but as both man and boy begin to walk off you hear him add, “But you better take my hand, at least until we’re out of sight. You know what your Mummy’s like.”

 

“She thinks that something bad is going to happen every time I breathe,” Mycroft concurs haughtily in a most exasperated and indignant tone. 

 

You don’t hear Sherlock’s reply. 

 

“It’s because you’re precious,” you say to thin air, before you turn around and make your way to the grave of your beloved first husband. “He’s growing more like you every day,” you murmur as you crouch down in front of the headstone, “What with his his attitude and his umbrella. He even fell asleep with his arms wrapped around your old one last night. I'm not quite sure if he’ll grow up to be the British Government, but”- you break off with a smile, adjusting the flowers. You’re quiet for a moment as you sort out which ones can be disposed of and which ones can stay. You look back up and breathe, “I miss you Myc. You know that I love your brother, but that doesn’t stop me from missing you.” You close your eyes and tilt your head forward, resting it against the cool marble. “I love you. I love you and I’ll never ever stop. I meant that. I think you’d be proud of your brother and son though, they've both been doing a wonderful job of keeping me going.” You pause and think for a moment. “Hopefully you’d be proud of me too.” You can almost hear Mycroft telling you that you’re worrying about nothing again and you let out a choked laugh, whilst a single tear falls to rest amongst the flowers. “Okay,” you say finally, “I _know_ you’d be proud of me”-

 

A laugh cuts off any further words or thought. You turn around to see Mycroft and Sherlock walking amongst the headstones. Sherlock’s licking at a mint and vanilla ice cream and pointing out something. Mycroft's munching at his own ice-cream with relish in between laughing at whatever his uncle had just told him. 

 

You smile and turn back to Mycroft’s headstone. “You’re right,” you tell him, “Nothing to worry about.”

 

Sherlock and little Mycroft amble back towards you. Once they arrive you rumple the hair of your son who smiles at you with sticky lips and link your arm with Sherlock’s. Then you go home. 


End file.
